


the price of mirrors

by aijee



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Host Club, Ambiguous Professionalism, Emotional Vulnerability Porn, M/M, Military-Grade Tension, also wonsoon platonic soulmates because they deserve that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25412152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aijee/pseuds/aijee
Summary: Wonwoo takes the offered hand. Mingyu’s grip is firm but escapable, and he looks at Wonwoo like he’s the first and only other person in the world.How irritating.As a semi-famous and starving journalist with too much pride to write about the same mediocre shit amateurs do, Wonwoo was desperate for his next big scoop—which he finds, of all places, at a host club.
Relationships: Jeon Wonwoo/Kim Mingyu
Comments: 73
Kudos: 323





	the price of mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired by _The Great Happiness Space_ documentary and countless other videos online about (Japanese) hosts/hostesses. Heavy alcohol consumption (and its repercussions) ahead, as per host club culture. Sex work and relevant rhetoric/themes thereof are also mentioned.
> 
> The mature scene is bracketed by “I said I would be here” and “There’s something for you on the coffee table.”
> 
> (If this was a film and had a music-backed opening sequence, the song playing would probably be [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7avw3Ljgo4) and/or [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjUjV6mAhDs))

**EXCERPT FROM FILE NO. 04**

**INTERVIEW WITH KIM MINGYU, HOST, STREET 17 HOST CLUB**

**LOCATION: SOUTH KOREA, SEOUL, GANGNAM-GU**

**–It’s common practice in the hosting industry to take a stage name. I’m curious to know why you use your real name.**

–I considered a stage name, actually. I was even using DK's at some point! But I ended up sticking to my real name because it felt more sincere to do. There’s a running joke in the club that my name isn’t actually Mingyu. (laughs) I promise it is.

**–I don’t doubt it. I understand that host club policies are changing with the times. Earlier business hours, regular inspections, etcetera. Is this “sincerity”, so to speak, one of those changes?**

–Hm, well, I wouldn’t say it’s top priority, honestly.

**–Why do you think so?**

–I suspect that sincerity involves being truthful, and people don’t want that. They come to us for healing, to ignore the stress of their lives. Being truthful will just add to that stress. Or maybe clients _are_ attracted to sincerity, but the act of it rather than its actuality.

* * *

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

Oscar Wilde, _The Importance of Being Earnest_

* * *

“Look, before you say anything—”

“You already know what I’m going to say, so why bother? Wonwoo—”

“Sir—”

“ _Don’t_ interrupt me.” Hearing Jeonghan’s stern voice is like bathing in ice. “Wonwoo, you haven’t written me anything in months. Scrap the ego, scrap the excuses. I’m asking you as a friend, not your managerial editor: what the fuck is up with you?”

Joshua is leaning against the office doorframe, Chinese takeout in one hand as he watches. He’s probably as much moral support as Jeonghan is willing to allow.

“Saying I have writer’s block sounds stupid,” Wonwoo mutters, “but it’s the truth. Nothing I write feels right.”

Jeonghan raises a brow. Wonwoo hates that look because he knows that Jeonghan knows and is just waiting for Wonwoo to verbalize it.

Fighting a bull is useless, so quietly, eyes down, he adds, “I don’t want it to be bad.”

Jeonghan throws his hands into the air.

“There. _There._ What have I been telling you ever since you started giving me that shit? Stop treating this like a sequel, you idiot! That project was good, now it’s done, _move on already_ —”

God, he sounds just like a nagging mother, repeating the same lessons to a child already numb to them—well, if that child were a grown man who is so anxious in his own name that Imposter Syndrome victims would look like monks. Comes with publishing under a real name, Wonwoo supposes.

“Today is a blank slate,” Jeonghan presses. “Just pick whatever you’re interested—even just a little—and roll with it, okay? Leave me to deal with the market. I’m great at that. But I can’t _do_ a damn thing if you don’t give me a _damn thing_ to work with.”

“I get it, I get it, geez,” Wonwoo groans, waving his hand around to distract from the pinch in his face. “I’ll email you ideas this week. Don’t yell at me if they’re all crap. Happy? Is that all? Can I go now?”

Jeonghan gives Wonwoo a hard look before making a noise of annoyed, strangled empathy. Joshua steps out of the doorway to toss his dinner. Seems like he served the other purpose of gatekeeper, that loyal dog.

“He usually isn’t, but Jeonghan’s right this time,” says Joshua despite Jeonghan’s distant indignation. “If you’re interested in something, chances are others will be, too. You’ve got good judgment.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “Talk to me again when the public health sector stops being a hotbed of disasters for you to pick and choose from.”

Joshua laughs something mild. “Still as quick as a whip,” he commends before smacking a boxy thing onto Wonwoo’s chest. Wonwoo winces. “Anyway, here’s a present, you goon. Open it, okay? Tell Jihoon we say hi.”

“You have a phone, tell him yourself!” Wonwoo calls over his shoulder as Joshua quite literally kicks his ass out of the office and shouts at him to get home safely.

* * *

Here’s the thing: Jeon Wonwoo is a skilled writer. A damn good one.

In junior high, an anonymous forum user posted about the profound but buried melancholy of modern Korean youth. It was scathingly intelligent, painfully honest, and the spark for an online rebellion against the unfair and outdated expectations for younger generations. To this day, Wonwoo was never identified, but the post marked a milestone for the growing quicksilver in his mouth.

He was freelancing by high school, traveling around the country by university, and finally broke the saturated sphere of journalism in his fourth year with a scrupulous, edifying piece about his then-girlfriend’s recruitment into a religious cult.1 One innocuous decision after another eroded her humanity until she disappeared, capping the narrative tumult on a cliffhanger to both an enthralled and horrified reception. It was the first time he posted under his real name. The aftershocks were electrifying.

Which brings us to today, some long months after that madness.

In the entrance hall of his apartment, Wonwoo aggressively toes off his shoes and beelines for the fridge.

He grumbles, “‘Just be interested in something,’ they say. ‘People will like whatever the fuck you’re interested in,’ they say. What crap.”

The sound of generic television noise stops. Shuffling turns into stomping turns into Jihoon jabbing Wonwoo in the ribs.

“What did we say about low muttering in this household?” he scolds. “If you’re going to mutter, at least do it loudly. Spare me a few days to prep Soonyoung’s funeral before you murder him.”

Wonwoo groans an acknowledgement as he reaches for a can of beer—“Dinner first,” Jihoon warns—and refrains himself from downing the bittersweet taste to cool his nerves. In the background, the microwave sounds like a droning fly.

“Tweedle-Dum and Dee offer you a paltry ‘hi,’” Wonwoo says.

Jihoon side-eyes him. “Guessing the meeting didn’t go so well.”

“Same shit. You?”

“Same shit.”

“Boomer ahjusshi producer fuck up your lyrics?”

“Mm.”

“That’s rough.”

Wonwoo swears he sees something like pity pass through Jihoon’s resting stony expression. It comes up every now and then. Jihoon’s usually talking about music, an up-and-coming artist or group that lights up his eyes, only for some executive to dim them by insisting on platitudes to perform under too-thick makeup and practiced faces.

Jihoon starts arranging the takeout on their small dining table. Wonwoo grabs another beer.

“Did Soonyoung tell you about his new project?” says Jihoon, accepting Wonwoo’s poor dinner contribution. “He has to produce a mini film or something for his summer class’s final assignment.”

“Yeah, he told me he was considering doing a documentary. Didn’t think he had it in him to do something educational.” Wonwoo laughs dryly before taking a sip of his beer. Fuck, that’s good. “Did he tell you what it’ll be about?”

Jihoon thinks for a second. The grease smell is strong.

“A host club,” he says, “I think.”

Wonwoo nearly spurts the beer through his nose. Jihoon, at least, is capable of looking worried when Wonwoo starts coughing the drink out the wrong throat pipe.

“Who are you, Virgin Mary? Surely you know what a host club is. Don’t you watch anime?”

Wonwoo glares through narrowed eyes. There’s a peace offering cup of water in front of him that he, very begrudgingly, accepts.

“Screw you, of course I know what host clubs are. It’s just…it’s not exactly the subject matter I expected Soonyoung to want to teach people about. Oh god, does he _go_ to host clubs? Is that why he’s so busy all the time?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“As his supposed best friend, I sure as hell would.”

“Man, you’re too easy rile up these days,” Jihoon snorts. He isn’t stopped from snatching Wonwoo’s beer; it had a stale aftertaste anyway. “Maybe you should just go with Soonyoung. A little flirting and decent alcohol would do you some good. You might even get laid.”

“Pft, me? Go to a host club? As if I’d ever—”

 _As if I’d ever go to a place like that_ is what Wonwoo probably would’ve said if he didn’t immediately think: _Why not?_

Wonwoo has read enough about the seedy going-ons of Korean nightlife. He’s read about how host clubs operate behind the scenes, the vast sums of money their customers shamelessly dispense. It’s the social underbelly above ground that echoes the thread of human exploration in his best works thus far—and he somehow has an in.

Jihoon’s chuckle snaps Wonwoo out of his ant pile of thoughts.

“I thought you’d be interested. Here.”

Jihoon produces a little paper from his hoodie pocket that, with its strangely sparkly photograph of a very handsome and dressed up fellow, could be mistaken for an idol photo card if not for the company number and map on the back. Despite the sparkles and hairspray and tragically obvious editing, this is, undoubtedly, a business card.

“Soonyoung gave this to me,” says Jihoon, “in case you thought it would be fun to do a partner article to his mini doc.”

Wonwoo blinks. “That’s…surprisingly astute of him.”

“I know,” says Jihoon, reaching for some sweet and sour chicken. “Best keep up that sunshine attitude of yours when you go to Gangnam with him this weekend.”

* * *

For all the silver Wonwoo’s tongue is worth, Gangnam is the last place he’d ever feel comfortable in. Chalk it up to the net negative in his bank account a la student debt or the simple and quiet upbringing. The fake glamor of this city never struck him as worth leaving his apartment for.

At half past noon on a cloudy but bright day, the area Wonwoo and Soonyoung have stepped into looks emptier than an abandoned children’s hotel from the early 2000’s—a slave to its era and the worst definition of kitsch.

“Well,” mutters Wonwoo, “This place looks inviting.”

“It’s called nightlife for a reason, genius,” says Soonyoung. He takes a rapid series of test photos and checks the monitor. Repeats. “The visual contrast is gonna be so dope.”

There’s an arrhythmic clack of heels somewhere. The air smells like someone recently smoked something. Only one food stall is in sight.

“Gonna grab something to eat,” Wonwoo says before Soonyoung can whine about mutually atrocious directional skills.

Wonwoo passes by turned-off neon letters framed by ugly black wires, which are sure to disappear when nighttime rolls around. The cursive and retro shop signs look even colder and older when the lights are off. Ahjummas and ahjusshis sweep the streets. Anyone else looks like they’d just woken up or haven’t slept since the night before.

The open food stall is head by a hunched grandmother selling deokkbokki. A single sniff makes Wonwoo’s stomach ache.

Three other people are nearby. The first person is a stumpy man in a suit, balding, probably in his 40’s or 50’s. Snobby-looking. Is on the phone discussing some fancy wine selection for a business dinner that night. This is the type of Gangnam experience travelogues don’t advertise, that’s for sure.

The other two are a young lady hanging off the arm of a particularly tall guy.

The girl’s sequined minidress looks like melting gold, while her delicate earlobes strain against giant hoop earrings. She has a branded shoulder bag, insanely high heels. Beside her, the fellow dons a velvet blue suit, V-neck shirt, gleaming leather loafers and an excessive amount of jewelry on his neck and hands.

She looks beautiful. He looks handsome. Wonwoo can’t help but wonder what the hell they’re doing dressed like that in this midday wasteland.

Unlike Wonwoo himself, which is made embarrassingly obvious by way of the tall stranger’s staring. Even with those garish pearl-laden sunglasses, it’s easy to recognize the confusion towards seeing someone so plain and willowy in the middle of Gangnam city. And to look in their direction? The _nerve_.

There’s something of a smirk on the stranger’s face. Wonwoo huffs and looks away, definitely not thinking _pompous dick_ despite the clips of conversation he tries to register.

”—waiting for you to propose to me, Min—”

“—maybe with some champagne, love—”

“—so expensive! But I can—”

“—heart is priceless—”

It’s all pretty disgusting as far as Wonwoo can tell, so he’s quick to grab his order and fast-walk out of there. God, he really hates Gangnam.

Soonyoung is reviewing some footage on a shaded bench by the time Wonwoo returns.

“Ooh, spicy rice cakes!” Soonyoung says, flip-flopped feet swinging back and forth. The two of them must really stand out. “Don’t mind if I do—”

Wonwoo swipes the plastic bag from Soonyoung’s grabby hands. “Do you even know where the hell the club is? I don’t want to be wandering around like a lost tourist when this place starts crawling with rich assholes and poor desperados.”

Soonyoung, ever more agile, snatches the bag back and revels in the scent of his third favorite street grub. “Of course I know where it is! I’ve been there once. How do you think I knew about it in the first place?”

“I’m not your mom, I don’t know what you do in your free time.”

“A friend in my dance group works there. Well, a friend. He doesn’t go to dance practice anymore.” Soonyoung bites into a steaming rice cake and suddenly can’t close his mouth. While garbling, he says something like, “He’s not interested in being in the project, but said the boss might be okay with it.”

Wonwoo halts from eating his own rice cake.

“‘Might’?” he asks, increasingly high-toned. “What do you mean ‘might’?”

“We’re here to talk to ‘em for permission, right?” Soonyoung shovels a few more into his mouth. “Hurry up and eat faster or the food’ll get cold—”

“I thought we were already set for this!”

“Set for a _meeting._ That’s what I told you! Because you’re good at talking all formal!”

Wonwoo pinches the skin between his brows, near tight enough to break skin.

Invisible bugs are crawling up his limbs at the thought of trying to persuade some champions of persuasion in order to let both him (The Misunderstanding Hack of a Writer) and Soonyoung (The Miscommunicating Buttmunch of an Amateur Filmmaker) worm into their world. Surely, as tempting as increased customer traffic sounds, the threat of losing the business altogether by mainstream exposure is front and center in this deal.

This isn’t the first time Wonwoo has faced the challenge of convincing someone to take a risk on him, nor will it be the last. But it would’ve been really fucking _great_ if he’d known that before coming.

“It’s not like I go to Gangnam enough to care about what people here think,” he asserts with effort. “Show me where this stupid host club is. And give me the deokkbokki. I paid for it.”

Soonyoung sneaks in a quick a hug before scampering away with their food. That snake.

The route Soonyoung takes him on is much simpler than Wonwoo anticipated. On the way, they pass a dozen closed clubs with the occasional boarded-up restaurant or shop. More cleaning ladies who’d probably be retired if they could be. It’s ominously clear that this pocket of Gangnam comes to life when the scrutinizing eyes of the sun are elsewhere.

Soonyoung says they’re a block from their destination when they see two figures Wonwoo has seen before.

The pretty girl giggles at something, bats the arm of her escort before blowing him a kiss good-bye. Wonwoo fully expects him to immediately chase after her or return the gesture—but he doesn’t.

Instead, this tall guy exhales, stares a little too long at his watch, before slipping into the establishment.

Above the doorway, an unlit LED sign reads STREET 17 in bold, striking text. Wonwoo can only imagine how much more striking it will look when it’s actually on.

Soonyoung points a red-stained finger and says, “That’s the place.”

* * *

“I’m sorry, but we’re not open yet—”

“Jun invited us!” is Soonyoung’s masterful interjection, which doubles as both impolite and far too vague. “He works here, right?”

Wonwoo pushes himself in front of Soonyoung. “What he means is that a friend of his invited us to come before opening time. A person named Wen Junhui? We’re here to talk to the owner specifically about a project we’re interested in doing together with the club.”

This new stranger, slightly disheveled but somehow all the more handsome in his slight dishevelment, stares at them both through circular lenses too small and red to actually be useful.

He stares just enough for discomfort to become panic before yelling over his shoulder, _“Wen Junhui! Get your ass over here! You’ve got guests!”_ Then he glances back at Wonwoo and Soonyoung, says, “He should be here in a few minutes,” before leaving the duo to their own devices.

There’s a sudden wave of sharp clicking noises, weird grumbles, more clicking. Soonyoung must be figuring out the lighting and coloring—as he should be with how many gaudy-ass fixtures there are in this gaudy-ass club.

A handful of classic chandeliers that are blooming with yellow-white lights hang from the ceiling; to the untrained eye, the crystals look believable, but balling on a budget has taught Wonwoo to spot plastic dupes. Display cases with lit bases line the walls. In them, items fit only two categories: trophies of some sort and an array of intricately decorated alcohol bottles. At the epicenter of the room is a pyramid of cocktail glasses protected by glass and glowing in their empty magnificence.

Dark leather seats and darker wood tables almost absorb the light, just barely reflecting whatever color mood hits it. Where the lights are quasi-elegant decoration and the alcohol loudly hints at what customers should buy, the actual areas of operation are as practical as they are chic for nocturnal sore eyes.

However reluctantly, Wonwoo is impressed with the thought invested into this place.

But before he can start figuring out whether the marble flooring is real, two figures arrive.

Both are incredibly handsome. Unfairly so. Perhaps entering a mancave of men who are specifically hired for being handsome and charming wasn’t a good idea.

“Wen Junhui The Zen Goon-hui, my man!” Soonyoung throws himself into an embrace with the more beanpole-looking of the two. “God, it’s been a while since I last saw you. You didn’t drop school right? You’re still in uni? Why don’t you go to practice? You never come to practice anymore!”

Wen Junhui gets hit with a typical Soonyoung pout that is promptly ignored with a pinch to Soonyoung’s nose. Wonwoo likes him already.

“My life isn’t ruled by art, dumbass, I still have to buy groceries,” says Junhui, frowning but not really; he does seem happy to see Soonyoung. “Also, unless you’re buying drinks, no hugging. Just got this dry-cleaned and I have to minimize the wrinkles before service.”

The person beside Jun, shorter and broader with slicked-back hair, scoffs. “And yet you’re wearing it now.”

“I wanted to check if it still fit!”

“Trust me, you didn’t get any bigger.”

When Soonyoung escapes Jun’s Snoot Prison and actually physically launches himself at his ex-urban dance club member, That Guy Beside Jun fully laughs with his entire chest. His abnormally large eyes crinkle narrow, resting smile exposed gummier than expected from his typical cool guy aura.

Mister Gums extends a hand to Wonwoo.

“My name is Choi Seungcheol. I’m the owner of the host club. Glad to see you both arrived safe and sound.”

Seungcheol raises his expertly-groomed brows. Wonwoo realizes that he’s staring instead of shaking Seungcheol’s hand.

And so Wonwoo does. Hands are shaken. Then they are not.

“Jun told me about what you two are interested in doing with us,” says Seungcheol, warily taking Junhui’s jacket before Soonyoung is wrapped in a chokehold. “I think this will be a great opportunity for all parties involved. Shall we sit down and discuss?”

With more curt introductions, Wonwoo follows Seungcheol further into the hosting space with Jun dragging Soonyoung close behind. The occasional person darts around and about, dressed in either, but not in between, full idol concert wear or a post-hangover bedhead and eye-bags even Wonwoo would wince at.

In this moment, the weight of someone’s gaze hangs on his shoulders, as if there’s a tripwire he’s about to trigger.

“You seem young to be managing such an establishment,” Wonwoo says, taking the plush sofa seat opposite to Seungcheol. “Did you start it yourself? Or was it passed on to you?”

“Eager to dip your toes into this collaboration, are you?” teases Seungcheol, good-natured despite the sharp look he regards Wonwoo with. “This club started with me and a few others, yes, but I’m afraid that I’m much too boring of a character for whatever story you and your partner are interested in.”

Soonyoung finally shoves Junhui off of him. Wonwoo feels white noise pooling at his toes.

“Then what did you have in mind?” he is begrudged to ask.

Wonwoo can see even more of Seungcheol’s gums with that smirk—“boring character,” Wonwoo’s ass—before the guy calls out, “Kim Mingyu! Can you come over here?”

A face and velvet pants simultaneously too familiar and not at all suddenly materialize from behind a nearby corner, dirty rag over his shoulder and fiddly hands absent of any decoration. Seeing that is rather strange.

“Yes? How can I help, hyung?”

“I’d like you two to meet Kim Mingyu,” Seungcheol stands up to pull Mingyu closer, “The number one host in Gangnam for the last two years.”

Unlike Wonwoo’s unforgiving pale, which mirrors the entire spectrum of lights in here, Mingyu appears much more acquainted with the sun, whether by his own means or otherwise. There’s a faint glow of pink to green to yellow around him, but nothing more.

“Number one by some metrics, sure,” Mingyu acknowledges, chuckling, “But there are just so many amazing hosts around that I think it’s difficult to make such a hard statement. Take it as a title more than an actual rank.”

With Mingyu’s sheepish shrug and disarmingly bright smile, Wonwoo now understands Choi Seungcheol and his masterful sense of diversion.

Observing, dissecting, and reassembling a juicy tale’s parts for public consumption make Wonwoo familiar with facets of people that rarely come to light. The nightlife industry overflows with that shit and Wonwoo wouldn’t be the first person to tell you that. As the voice behind your two to three-minute Twitter sob story article, Wonwoo has to deal with the raw, bitter smell of the clay he’s been given.

But when the clay is especially good, Wonwoo knows when to pinch his nose.

Here stands a statue already shaped by circumstance, yet to be baked into permanence. At the core of Mingyu’s pretentious title is someone who looks as much the prince as he could still act the pauper.

What Seungcheol really tells Wonwoo is this: _Here is your muse_. _Take him and experience our world through his eyes. You might even learn something._

Wonwoo stands. Mingyu holds out his hand.

“I’m glad to formally meet you. My name is Kim Mingyu.”

Wonwoo takes the offered hand. Mingyu’s grip is firm but escapable, and he looks at Wonwoo like he’s the first and only other person in the world.

How irritating.

“Nice to meet you, Mingyu,” Wonwoo says, forcing a perfect smile. “Would you be interested in joining a little project?”

* * *

“Is it that hard for you to run this shit by me _first?”_

Wonwoo refrains from sticking a finger into his ear. He might dislodge something that will make Jeonghan’s noisiness even noisier.

“You’re _unbelievable_ , springing this on me all of a sudden right after a _board meeting._ You know how pissed off those meetings make me!” groans Jeonghan one second, then in the next the line of his mouth splits open by a brash cackle. “Whatever, you’ve got the green light from me, you beautiful bastard! Send me regular updates and a basic timeline by the end of the week or you’ll never hear the end of it from me. I know you hate my phone calls. Capiche?”

Dozens of algorithms for headlines, photos, and narrative voices flit through Wonwoo’s mind. He can see it already.

So he says, “Yes, sir.”

* * *

**From: Unknown Number**

Hi hi! Is this Jeon Wonwoo’s number??

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

Who is this?

**From: Unknown Number**

This is Mingyu! Sorry sorry, I should’ve mentioned that in the first text!! 😇 I got your number from Soonyoung~

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

I see. That’s alright.

Is this about tomorrow’s arrangements? I can send a more formal email to Choi Seungcheol if you need written reference.

**From: Unknown Number**

Not everything has to be business-related you knowww 🙃

What are you doing?? Busy writing and stuff??

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

I believe that exchanging numbers is on the expectation that we would be able to contact each other for logistical or emergency reasons.

**From: Unknown Number**

Aw but that’s no fun 😩 We’re working together, right? We should be able to text comfortably like this!!!

Besides, you and your friend are officially my newest unofficial clients 🤩 And I like texting clients~~

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

If you need to discuss tomorrow’s arrangements, then it would be in your best interest to contact Soonyoung, who will be carrying more things on his person than me.

**From: Unknown Number**

I already did~!!! He was super nice and clear about it 😙😍 But then he stopped replying because he was in the middle of a lecture 😖😰

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

And you are contacting me because?

**From: Unknown Number**

Just felt like it!!! I told you, I like texting my loves 🥰

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

I am not one of your clients, Mister Kim.

**From: Unknown Number**

Not yet~~ 😉😘

Just kidding, kidding!!!! Good luck with whatever you’re doing then!! Fighting~ 💪

* * *

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

I politely request that our outside contact be strictly business.

>DELETE DRAFT?

>YES

* * *

It shouldn’t be surprising to see an Aston Martin roll up to pick him up, but Wonwoo is surprised anyway. Maybe he should’ve dressed up a little for this. _There’s nothing and no one to dress up for._

The front door lifts like some alien technology and out steps Kim Mingyu with his swoopy hairdo and attire of muted decadence. How considerate of him.

“This was a birthday present,” says Mingyu when he’s inevitably prompted about the car, “from a customer.”

Soonyoung makes a choking noise from behind his camera. “A customer gave it to you? That’s fuckin’ nuts.”

“Oh, no no no,” Mingyu quickly says with flawless coy visage. “The client pre-owned it, so I was offered a really good discount if I wanted to buy it from her. I’d saved up quite a bit already at the time and, well, this is my father’s dream car, so the deal was pretty hard to pass.”

Wonwoo snorts, makes the offhand remark, “I can already imagine you picking up clients with this.”

Mingyu has the gall to actually reply, “I do sometimes! When we go on dates. But I usually just walk around with them because I think it’s nice to stroll around sometimes. Unless they’re in tall heels, of course, because I don’t want them to be uncomfortable while we're together, you know?”

In this limbo period between afternoon and evening, the streetlights are flickering on. The gold and silver accoutrement of Mingyu’s outfit stand out even more, drawing gazes to the narrowness of his wrists, fingers, the jut of his collarbone and the length of his throat. Chatter swells around them.

Wonwoo stops himself from digging his fingernails into his palms because Jihoon will find out from Soonyoung and yell at him again.

Mingyu nods towards his chariot. “Let’s go?”

Soonyoung is very clear and very loud about his excitement, so Wonwoo doesn’t have much of a choice but to accept. His choices are even further narrowed when the whole backseat area is claimed by both Soonyoung and his horde of recording equipment to test out. This, to Wonwoo’s disdain, is fair.

Wonwoo surrenders to the passenger seat as prim and small as possible—which Mingyu catches sight of and makes him say, “It’s a car, not fine china. Please, make yourself comfortable!”

Wonwoo bites his tongue and doesn’t reply with, _I don’t have a good enough relationship with my bank to pay for any damages, thank you._ The expression of thanks Wonwoo does give is as prim as his entry. Mingyu just smiles back and starts the engine.

Bergamot. Lemon verbena. Pepper and something flowery. Mingyu’s cologne is far too heavy. Surely, this isn’t how girls actually like it.

* * *

It isn’t long before Wonwoo realizes that the route they’re taking isn’t the fastest one.

In the rearview mirror, Soonyoung is in awe as the dimming sky passes its torch to the lights of Gangnam. It’s quite pretty, actually, seeing this dazzling spectacle of loud colors and bustling energy. Expensive soundproofing isn’t enough to combat the waves of noisy young adults, grumbling businessmen, and beauties surely borne from fiction and not actual human beings.

It’s the type of scene all those foreign films love to capitalize on: a city whose heart beats after dusk, where it feels like a boozy, booming festival at every corner. Lipstick is both perfect and kissed off. Styled hair comes apart in eager hands. The atmosphere is as intoxicating as its people.

Plaster some pretty music over the ugly catcalls and not-quite-hidden alleyway fucks and call it movie magic.

Honestly, this is only tolerable because Wonwoo is—well, he’s in here. Not out there, where the chaos could strip him bare and eat him alive.

Glancing over, Wonwoo finds Mingyu with a serene expression, enjoying the low thrum of the radio station’s latest pop pick.

Wonwoo immediately and dreadfully considers, _Did he know that I’d be uncomfortable walking around at this hour?_

At the sound of rustling behind them and a hushed “oh shit” from Soonyoung, Wonwoo pushes the consideration aside. No. There’s equipment to carry. Vehicular transport was necessary tonight. Soonyoung, who is _also here_ , was very clear about that from the start.

“Are you comfortable?”

They’ve stopped at a red light, but Mingyu hasn’t shifted his forward gaze. And yet, somehow, Wonwoo feels like he’s being stared down and looking away means he’d lose.

“Too cold?” Mingyu says. “Too warm? Air freshener too strong? I can remove it. Oh, and feel free to change the music if you’d like. There should be a phone cord in the glove compartment.”

Wonwoo doesn’t have to glance over again to see Mingyu’s elbow now sitting on the armrest console between them. His hand hangs, fingers draped lazily across the cup holders. _Scritch scritch._ He’s picking at something dried up on the plastic; spilled soda, probably.

Is this a silent gesture of empathy, an invitation for touch, perhaps both? From experience? Habit? Wonwoo is at a loss. They’d just met, after all, so Mingyu’s mannerisms are still novel. But they’re also anything but frivolous.

“I’m fine,” Wonwoo says neatly. Then he relaxes, just a little.

* * *

**FILE NO. 02**

**INTERVIEW WITH KIM MINGYU, HOST, STREET 17 HOST CLUB**

**LOCATION: SOUTH KOREA, SEOUL, GANGNAM-GU**

**–Thank you again for this peek into your life as a host. If you don’t feel comfortable with answering a question, or if doing so breaches your work contract, feel free to tell me or to not comment. Additionally, I’ve mentioned it already, but I want to reconfirm that I will record these interviews. I promise nothing will be shared to other parties. I just don’t want to miss anything.**

–How scary! (laughs) Hopefully I don’t say anything embarrassing. Go ahead.

**–Great. For this session, we’ll start with some basic questions. First, what does the role of a host entail?**

–If you really boiled it down, the job involves flirting, drinking, and flirting to maximize the drinking to earn a profit. That’s the image of this job, which is understandable since so many hosts practice that principle. Personally, I think it’s a little cold to think of hosting that way.

**–Please expand on that.**

–I consider hosting a different type of hospitality service: I have the job of comforting a struggling person. How can you do this well if you do it coldly? If comfort means drinking and flirting, so be it; that’s most of the time, I’ll admit. But it also means being someone who cares enough to text you every day, or being a non-judgmental companion with open ears. Things like that.

**–You seem to really care for your clients.**

–I do! I have all their birthdays and our anniversaries on my calendar. It’s so hard deciding on presents, you know?

– **How many clients do you have? If you don’t mind me asking.**

–It’ll be plus one if you become one. (laughs)

– **How about pay? Is that something you can disclose?**

–After the club takes its cut, my monthly pay averages forty to fifty million won. Dry months are in the twenties to thirties, while good months are in the upper fifties to lower sixties. It fluctuates.

**–Wow. That’s…a lot of money.**

–I suppose so. Numbers are the only way hosts can be ranked objectively, though numbers aren’t always telling. If it’s any consolation, I do use a decent amount to pay for things on dates with my clients, or to buy gifts for them. You know if it’s from me when the card smells like my cologne.

**–Which is?**

–Wouldn’t you like to know?

**–Just curious. I think you mentioned something earlier about dates. Is that a requirement for hosts?**

–Yes! An implicit part of the job is also going on dates with clients. Shopping trips, eating at restaurants, visiting pretty places to take photos and stuff. It’s up to the host’s discretion and the client’s consent since it’s all off hours. But hosts do have to follow some rules—etiquette, confidentiality, that stuff—since the club’s name is technically being used.

**–Do clients ever feel like it’s an actual date?**

–They are actual dates!

**–Right. How did you get employed by STREET 17? What did you do before hosting? I’d like to more about your story.**

–My story isn’t anything special, honestly. It’s the same rags-to-riches “Rural Boy Quits School to Make It Big in the City” sorta thing. Started out with wanting to be an idol, you see, but that didn’t work out. I was homeless at some point, too, just camping out at a park somewhere. That really sucked. (laughs) But then I found an ad for a host club and thought, “Hey, maybe I’ll try this!” After applying and working for a little while, the boss man let me sleep in the utility room until I could afford my own apartment. The rest is history.

**–How long did it take to afford your own apartment?**

–Maybe a year? Pay is mediocre at first since you don’t really have customers or a reputation.

**–That sounds very difficult. But you seem to have learned a lot and grown from those experiences.**

–I couldn’t have done it without my brothers here. Host clubs are a dime a dozen, but finding one with hosts who truly care about each other is rare.

**–I’m sure you respect your fellow hosts a great deal. But I have to ask: what do you think separates you from them as the top host? You’ve held that title for a while now, or so I’ve heard.**

–You’ve heard correctly, love. Oh! Sorry again! I’m just hardwired to see anyone who isn’t a host as clientele.

**–Is that something you always do? Do the other hosts do that as well?**

–All of us use a specific term of endearment to differentiate whose client is whose and to maintain some anonymity. We try not say names out loud while working.

**–That’s quite clever.**

–It really is! And to actually answer your question, I don’t really know what qualifies me for being number one. I’m not exactly a social butterfly, although I’m a noisy and talkative drunk. My fashion sense is alright but nothing special without help; The8 here’s great for that if you’re interested. I’ve been told many times that my looks are key, but everyone here is also handsome! Maybe it’s my height? It’s the only thing I have over the others. Ha ha, get it? Because I’m taller than them? Speaking of, you might have more luck asking the others that question.

**–That’s a good idea. Ah, look at the time. I think that’ll be it for today. Thank you again for your participation in this project.**

–You’re very welcome. This was fun! I have a habit of saying too much sometimes, so don’t be afraid to shut me up next time, alright?

**–You’re fine, Mister Kim.**

–So formal!

* * *

**EXCERPT FROM FILE NO. 03**

**INTERVIEW WITH VERNON (CHWE HANSOL), HOST, STREET 17 HOST CLUB**

**LOCATION: SOUTH KOREA, SEOUL, GANGNAM-GU**

**–What do you think separates Mingyu from the other hosts? What reinforces his rank as number one host?**

–Because, oh I don’t know, he’s just perfect? Hot, nice, can cook and shoot some shots with the best of ‘em. Really hot. That better be emphasized in your project. He’s drowning in money now ‘cause of the job, too, but he’s too humble about it to say so; chicks dig that. Oh, and he’s got this sort of—how should I put it—honesty? Yeah, honesty, to everything he says and does. Lots of customers say it’s refreshing.

– **Refreshing? How so?**

–Surely, you’ve done some research about hosting, Mister Journalist.

**–I have, but I don’t want to make assumptions.**

–It’s fine. They’re probably true.

* * *

Joshua, by proxy of his still-wrapped present at the foot of Wonwoo’s laundry basket, reminds Wonwoo that people do exist and can still do things precisely because they can and not because they want anything in return. Granted, wisdom like that usually entails some self-reflection, which Wonwoo is rarely in the mood for when his work subject is far more interesting.

Ironic Christmas wrapping paper aside, Wonwoo finds a notecard sitting atop a leather-bound journal.

> _Dear Slug Hobo,_
> 
> _I swear, your eyes are going to melt out of their sockets one day from how long you stare at screens. If you love me, you’ll use this to start writing your thoughts down. Doesn’t have to be work-related, just throw down whatever brain vomit is ready to spill. Who knows? Might be helpful for your future self somewhere down the line._
> 
> _Sincerely,  
> _ _Ferret Man_

Wonwoo’s stuttered exhale is as close to a laugh as it gets this late. What an asshole, that guy, caring about Wonwoo like this. All those public health issues must be making Joshua soft.

The nightstand clock reads 1:23 AM, red and blinking like a warning crosswalk light.

Wonwoo snatches a pen from his desk. He could just burn the damn thing. It wouldn’t be the first time.

* * *

_Hey Joshua,_

_First: I hate you for making me actually pay attention to what’s in my head. You know I hate it in here._

_Second: It’s been a few days since I started on my newest journalistic opus. I’ve teamed up with Soonyoung this time to report on a host club. Well, a host, more accurately._

_I have met some enigmatic people in my life (hell, Haeyoung was groomed into a cult) but this Kim Mingyu person is just fucking baffling._

_His popularity is easy to see. Besides ticking the checkboxes of socially normative good looks and that loud, goofy charm that never stops being out of style for some reason, he’s an expert at skirting what’s being asked for while still saying what you want to hear. During our first one-on-one interview, I was so engrossed in what he was willing to divulge that I even lost track of time and nearly missed the train home._

_Mingyu offered to call a taxi or drive me himself. If doing so wasn’t standard protocol, I might have actually misread his intentions. And that’s the point, isn’t it?_ _I don’t need my degree to recognize that every step he takes is as premeditated as the perfect crime._

_He would say shit like, “Here, let me take your jacket.” “That’s a lovely cologne; it’s different from last time.” “Shall I fetch you a drink? I think we still have that whiskey you like.”_

_Imagine it: a striking, heart-on-sleeve stranger falls to his knees at the sight of you, wrapping his pretty self around your finger with nothing but you and alcohol on his tongue. At least I’m smart enough to realize it. I’m hardly a customer, but I’ll be the first to admit that every little courtesy made me feel a certain adrenaline or power. It was exciting. Can you blame me? I’m only mortal._

_But I’m also as rational and as wary as people come. How much worse can it be for the more gullible? For those fragile and desperate for love like most of the women who probably go there? Does Mingyu truly believe in what he’s doing? It’s a cruel but tantalizing thought._

_This is an opportunity for a story, and I’ll be damned if I don’t bust my ass finding a way to gouge out its secrets._

* * *

The _ding_ of an email slaps Wonwoo out of his thoughts. Sleep is coming. Ink is bleeding. There’s a slight tremble to his fingers that causes the pen to drop back to the table. The contact sounds dull in his ears.

Even with heaviness in his eyes, Wonwoo can still register the words he’d written, the turbulent voices in his mind that spurred them all. He stutters breath, but it sounds nothing like before.

He slaps the book closed, tosses it wherever he can’t see it, and goes to bed.

* * *

**_6:00 AM_ **

At exactly this time, Mingyu opens his apartment door with a toothy grin brighter than the first hints at dawn. His hair is still unbrushed, white tank wrinkled and graying. He looks tired yet awake and somehow happy to see Wonwoo and Soonyoung. Both of them are welcomed inside to a surprisingly humble abode.

There is nothing of interest apart from the family photos on the side table near to entrance door; in each photo frame, Mingyu is never any older than twelve or thirteen.

More steps in, the atrociously large space looks even more bare. Only necessities for each section are in sight.

“I promise it’s this clean normally,” Mingyu says proudly. “It does look quite dull, I’ll admit. I’m not usually here unless it’s to sleep, so there isn’t much need for decoration.”

Mingyu tells them this while overlooking the waking city landscape, laid out before him beyond the ceiling-high windows of his living room. It reminds Wonwoo of the fifty-plus floors he’d passed in the elevator.

In this room, there are only some couch pieces, a coffee table, and a sizable television. It seems even emptier from the angle Soonyoung is recording at.

“What about the kitchen?” asks Wonwoo. “It looks way fancier than the other—”

“We’ll be late to the gym,” Mingyu singsongs. Still smiling. Still unbrushed.

Wonwoo watches as Mingyu snatches a gym bag and chilled water bottle from the coffee table before heading to the doorway.

**_6:05 AM_ **

The gym is nearly vacant of other patrons, save for Mingyu’s trainer and an elderly man hobbling along the treadmill.

On the single break the old man takes for water, Wonwoo asks about Mingyu.

“Nice young man. The only one up this early besides the people who work here,” says the grandfather. “Brought me a cupcake once, a vegan one, that health-crazed thing. Never even told him it was my birthday, you know.”

Wonwoo feels his mouth twitch. Only a heart of actual stone wouldn’t find that remotely heartwarming.

“How did he know?” he can’t help but ask.

“Must’ve asked one of the trainers. He’s got ways of finding out that sorta stuff. He’s a sly one, that Mingyu.”

The old man says this with a crooked, half-toothy half-no teeth smile before shuffling back to the treadmills and netting more distance than Wonwoo does in a week, probably.

Later on, Mingyu identifies Mr. Seo as his de facto Gym Buddy.

“He’s a great conversationalist,” says Mingyu. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to every time you wake up.”

**_7:45 AM_ **

Soonyoung and Wonwoo get undocumented glimpses of Mingyu scuttling around in his kitchen. He’d insisted that the two of them stay in the living room, politely declining the request to film him doing…whatever it is that he’s doing.

Wonwoo can’t imagine why. It’s just cooking.

What comes of it is nothing special either, just a vegetable omelet with some radish kimchi and leftover rice mixed with beans. “Gotta get that protein after a workout!” is the chipper explanation before he invites them to fill their empty stomachs.

Mingyu and Soonyoung chatter on about the latest episode of some trendy romance drama. With his first bite of warm, quite tasty egg, Wonwoo thinks, _I can’t remember the last time I’ve had something home cooked._

The strange privacy of breakfast is compounded by Mingyu’s even stranger approval of Soonyoung filming him in the shower. Not that Wonwoo had any doubt that the documentary would be mature, given the subject matter, but Wonwoo was sure he’d have to do much more digging for this much intimacy.

Intimacy? That’s probably not the right word.

“You do enough costume changes,” jokes Mingyu, “and suddenly being naked in front of people stops being such a big deal.”

Before Wonwoo can snipe with something like, _Of course a handsome person would be okay with that_ or _Costume changes at a host club must be exciting for the customers, then_ , Mingyu just _strips_. As in he literally shucks his clothes off with incredible efficiency right before Wonwoo’s and Soonyoung’s and Soonyoung’s camera’s very unprepared eyes.

Soonyoung’s squawking mixes with Mingyu’s appalling laughter as Wonwoo leaves. It's not like Mingyu can answer questions properly with those glass panes between them.

It’s in the after-shower show-and-tell that the extravagance truly begins. Mingyu is surprisingly meticulous. He knows exactly which nondescript storage container contains which branded shoes or bespoke suits or oversized jewelry. He is selective with what he chooses to show: stacking white gold rings from a client for their two-year anniversary; a limited-edition screen print shirt from a fashion show another client attended; and then, a special watch.

At first glance, the one he shows is rather unremarkable for its plain leather straps, plain gold face, and the absence of any complications.

“May I ask how much it costs?” asks Wonwoo.

“When it was purchased? Probably around a couple million won back then, maybe less. Pretty cheap for a high-end custom at the time. But today?” Mingyu mulls over it a bit, face slightly pinched when he says, “Five billion?”

Soonyoung makes a choking sound. Only a shred of self-control keeps Wonwoo from doing the same.

Mingyu has several watches in his decadent collection, a few of which are straight up gaudy by the number of diamonds on them. But the one he picked out, which he notes is almost always locked in a safe, was commissioned by a wealthy racecar driver in the 70’s—

“—before he gave it to his daughter for her future husband,” Mingyu says, barely even holding the thing by the tips of his fingers. “After a few visits, she gave it to me, insisting that I keep it even though I said no. She kept joking that she wouldn’t leave until I’d accepted it, so of course I eventually had to. We had to close up for the night, after all!”

Wonwoo swallows down the disdain.

“I see,” he says. “Did you ever try giving it back?”

Mingyu carefully returns the watch to its case. “She didn’t return after that.”

Soonyoung spares Wonwoo a glance, who returns the gesture with equal bewilderment.

“That was a lie,” Mingyu says with a chuckle. “She visited fairly recently, but only for a quick visit. Wanted to tell me that she’d gotten married.”

Wonwoo feels a sharp, electric prick at the tips of his ears. His drifting gaze (the fault of the hour, he’ll argue) snaps to where those words just came from.

Mingyu’s lips are stuck in his usual, unwavering smile. But it’s softer now, more inclined than before. It pushes into his eyes, which give way to the bulge of his cheeks and the barest crease between his brows; it’s the kind of change you only find if you’re looking for it. Beneath, Mingyu’s eyes are fixed on the watch case in his hands.

“I did ask her if she wanted this back. I’d even offered to treat her to a drink on the house!” Mingyu trails his fingers on the surface fabric of the case. “But she declined both, saying that I should keep her gift because, if her friend never dragged her to the host club in the first place, if she never met me or became my client, if she never mustered the courage to give me this watch—and if I never accepted it—she probably wouldn’t have had that same courage to go on a blind date and meet the person she eventually married.”

Mingyu finally puts the damn thing away and locks the safe. The breaths lodged in both Wonwoo and Soonyoung’s throats finally escape.

“Had to down a little drink before she could, apparently,” adds Mingyu in jest, “But then she laughed and said that she’d never would’ve been able to hold her alcohol without me either! I’m really happy for her… Ah! Sorry, I’m rambling as usual. Let me change so we can get to a more interesting part of my schedule.”

By the time Mingyu starts organizing an outfit for the day _and_ night (“There’s a difference!” apparently), Wonwoo registers that his own mouth is hanging open. So he closes it.

He quickly recollects himself and returns to asking questions he’d written about wardrobe in hosting. Color coordination this, seasonal pieces that, whatever. But in the back of his mind, he realizes that the moment Mingyu apologized for rambling, Wonwoo was about to say:

 _No, that story was absolutely fascinating! I actually thought that she was_ proposing _to you! Please, do tell me more. Is this an aberration? What about your other clients? I’d always imagined people who go to host clubs to be much more interested in hooking up with people like you—_

Wonwoo holds his tongue.

* * *

**_10:00 AM_ **

Mingyu has a date, so Wonwoo and Soonyoung find a convenience store to waste some time before meeting up again. Wonwoo feels like he’s staring at a time loop when Soonyoung pulls out some Yu-Gi-Oh cards from his bag.

He motions for Wonwoo to pick his cards first, which Wonwoo hesitantly does. Wordlessly, they build their decks to the sound of fizzing, unnaturally colored energy drinks.

“Your cards are shit,” says Wonwoo.

“Shut up,” says Soonyoung back. “I’m not the one who couldn’t stop playing this in high school. My move first.”

When Wonwoo tries to kick him under the table, he really means _Thanks_. When Soonyoung not-kicks him back, he really means _We’re in this together, idiot. Do what you gotta do._

* * *

**_1:00 PM_ **

Soonyoung falls asleep during the host club’s meeting. Wonwoo can’t fault him since they had to wake up obnoxiously early today. There was a chance, was Soonyoung’s manic reasoning, to find someone who isn’t Mingyu in Mingyu’s apartment. Isn’t that juicy? If it was anyone else, probably not.

This meeting with everyone discusses plans for the day, like celebrations the hosts remember because they know better than to ignore that pay bonus. A six-month anniversary for someone, one hundred days for another—the list goes on. Wonwoo can already imagine the willingness to spend more for remembering such "special" occasions.

“That’s the goal,” Seungcheol says, clapping his hands, “Now, chore assignments: Chan clean the floors, and Hansol, tables. Mingyu, kitchen. Minghao, the displays. Seokmin, fold the napkins and tablecloths and then follow up with the orders I placed on Monday. Junhui, take stock, especially of the vodkas and liquors. Check in with Minghao about…”

A well-oiled machine, that’s for sure. Seungcheol doesn’t fuck around despite that nice face of his.

And yet he’s clearly in hearing distance of Mingyu, who grabs Seokmin by the shoulder and whispers, “Can we switch? Just for today?”

“Oh god,” Seokmin says. “Today was with Hye-su, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, well…”

“I keep telling you to stop with her! She’s batshit _crazy_ , man, and you know it. It won’t impact your monthly averages anyway—”

“And _I_ keep telling you I don’t think like that.” Mingyu pinches the skin between his brows. “It’s fine. I always get it together before opening. I just need to sit down right now. Please? I’ll buy you that shower gel you like so much.”

“As if I can’t buy it myself.” Seokmin snatches the basket of cleaning supplies from him. “Take it easy. Anne is coming tonight and you know she’ll drink us under the table.”

Mingyu mutters a low, grumbly “Fuck” with a playfulness only he could muster at wit’s end.

 _Oh_ , Wonwoo thinks, _Soonyoung would’ve liked to film that._

**_2:00 PM_ **

The dark interior of the main area hammers home a small space intimacy, so the white walls of the dressing room and its many backlit mirrors is a startling contrast.

“Your split ends are killing me, smalls,” moans the hair stylist.

“Or should we say talls?” says the makeup artist. “But little Min-min here’s always gonna be small to us.”

Mingyu manages a chuckle—“Hey, I’m not that much younger than you two!”—but it’s dull-sounding in a way someone might laugh after witnessing an accident, or after being in one.

Wonwoo barely registers a word of warning before Mingyu is fully slumped against the chair, snoring in sleep.

Something in Wonwoo almost compels him to walk over and shake Mingyu awake, chastise him for being rude or inquire about coffee. But neither the hair stylist nor the makeup artist look fazed.

They’re clearly used to this based on their incredible efficiency. It isn’t long before Mingyu’s entire head is hit with a collection of bitter-smelling sprays to keep both his hair and face in place. Throw on a glamorous outfit and some cliché about Sleeping Beauty doesn’t seem so outlandish anymore.

“You’re not going to wake him up?” Wonwoo asks, hushed despite his words.

“Don’t worry, this always happens,” says the hair stylist, already rolling his stuff to the next seat available. “He’s good at waking up on time. Never seen 'im sleep into a service night.”

Soonyoung mutters, “Man, must be nice being such a big earner. Jun yelled at _me_ for sleeping, and I don’t even work here.”

The makeup artist is staring at them, which really means staring at Wonwoo since Soonyoung is too busy changing camera batteries and being annoyed at Jun for still not going to dance practice and being a handsome shit, apparently.

Between the doll eyes and yellow contact lenses and thick, angular eyeliner that drips past the makeup artist’s tear ducts, that stare of hers is so piercing that Wonwoo has to refrain from checking his chest for puncture wounds. He has no idea how his question could warrant such a look.

“What did Mingyu say your name was again?” she asks.

“Um, Jeon Wonwoo?” Of course, he’d sound confused about his own name.

“You’re that journalist,” she says, blinking just once, “The one who wrote about the cult girl.”

Wonwoo’s mouth immediately dries. Never once has someone so frankly identified him like this.

“You’re writing about Min-min?”

“Well, the club, really—”

“You’re writing about Min-min,” she repeats like a statement.

“I am,” he replies like an answer.

“We’ve known him since he started here,” she says with a rough edge to every syllable. She probably smokes. “Don’t write shit about him. Don’t make him cry, either.”

The makeup artist says it as if pointing a finger at him in broad daylight on a crosswalk. Even her once-over is chilling and slow, perhaps matching a face to name for her bingo book.

After a moment, Wonwoo opens his mouth.

He says, “I,” _can’t promise that_ , “won’t.”

**_5:00 PM_ **

Service starts and Mingyu is as enthusiastic as ever. It’s like the first half of the day never happened.

Rather than the ravenous, frothing-at-the-mouth hordes of girls at the door as Wonwoo imagines, the guests arrive in a wide range of volume and state of dress. Some pre-gamed and others probably just came from nearby hookah bars, yet they all seem to have a clear understanding of the privacy the club enforces.

No one is prodding into each other’s business, as much as their curious looks say otherwise. They must want to look well-to-do for their precious oppas.

Yes, that. Age isn’t a concept here either, it seems, not when it’s something many patrons want to forget when young handsome men could call them ageless titles like “princess” (Junhui) or “darling” (Seokmin) or “my dear” (Hansol) instead.

The first wave of girls settles down. Thunderous music demands a physical closeness, and with physical closeness comes that feeling of being close. A simple “How are you?” and “I’m fine” looks like an exchange of secrets. At the end of the night, Wonwoo will realize just how similar loud music and duct tape are.

Alcohol is danced around the room by the hosts. If Wonwoo wasn’t on the job, he would’ve treated Soonyoung and himself to a little gin and tonic, even with the outrageous price slapped onto it.

“You sure?” says Minghao (whose stage name is just a riot) from behind the bar. Manning the drinks isn’t an excuse to look anything less than fuckable, clearly. “It’ll be under the table as long as Seungcheol doesn’t see.”

“Why?” Wonwoo says.

“Drinks are how we get paid, but it’s Mingyu’s treat tonight.”

Minghao starts wiping the mouth of a bottle of VJOP gin. From afar, Soonyoung films Mingyu bumping his forehead against a beautiful woman’s temple. They’re laughing about something no normal person could hear over the harsh bass of whatever is playing now.

**_7:03 PM_ **

Wonwoo finds it odd to see Mingyu excuse himself to use the bathroom. There’s a hidden one only hosts are allowed to use.

As Wonwoo makes his way over, he sees that the door is still open like a rip at the seams of this shadowed universe. In spite of what his shower antics suggest, it’s not that Mingyu enjoys the voyeurism. On the contrary, Mingyu is very much experienced in selective privacy so Wonwoo knows it would’ve been closed had Mingyu had the mind to close it.

Hands are braced against the porcelain, knees on the ground. His face is obscured by the angle, but the tendons at Mingyu’s throat are protruding and tense with even the smallest shift of his head.

“They have to do this,” Seungcheol says, quiet, from behind Wonwoo, “Or else they’d never make it to closing time.”

From the service area, the booming music probably drowns out the forced retching quite well. Mingyu, Wonwoo learns, is also experienced at stifling the noise himself.

**_8:47 PM_ **

Not even ten minutes into sitting down does one of Mingyu’s clients—a cute, small thing with a dress that looks illegal any other side of town—orders a champagne call. Wonwoo has researched enough to know what a champagne call entails, but like most observations so far, what he knows means nothing when there is no screen to shield him.

The music roars even louder. Flashing lights are manifesting into a pulsing headache. One of the other hosts has to gather himself from tickle-wrestling a patron after a speakerphone announcement for the big boy order.

It starts with chanting. The music changes into something rhythmic and electric, so powerful that it almost feels like Wonwoo’s entire bloodstream changes its flow to match.

Seungcheol and Mingyu are playing tennis with words, saying the most arbitrary shit from pet names to wordless hooting to a screechy countdown to the uncorking.

Minghao brings out the champagne in ice. Wonwoo wouldn’t have been able to see the bottle had its slender neck and crown not been covered in gold foil.

“3, 2, 1, _pop!”_ everyone shouts in unison, even most of the girls. The few who didn’t are outed for their newness.

Every host takes a swig—first Mingyu, then Seungcheol, all the way down to Chan. And then it’s the customer’s turn.

For the small thing that she is, she can chug like a champ. It’s honestly quite impressive. And as she does it, Mingyu holds a towel to her chin as he shouts encouragements and smiles with all his teeth while the chanting continues in the background.

Wonwoo is nearly deaf at this point, but he can see Mingyu’s lips: “You’re doing so well, love! You’re amazing, so amazing!”

She shoves the bottle out of her mouth. She’s coughing and gasping for air and clutching onto Mingyu or else her legs would give beneath her. With one hand, he holds her head against his chest. With the other, he holds the champagne bottle.

“You did so well, so amazing, really amazing, my love,” his lips say.

Soon after, Wonwoo learns that it’s host club policy to finish whatever a client does not, and Mingyu is nothing if not an obedient, law-abiding citizen.

**_10:11 PM_ **

Wonwoo takes that gin and tonic.

**_10:26 PM_ **

Mingyu goes to the bathroom again.

* * *

**_12:19 AM_ **

It’s all over. Somehow. The clients have made peace with the need to close up, including stragglers who came with the purpose of staying past midnight. _Not here_ , is the assumption. _We can go somewhere else._ Maybe it has to do with a camera and journalist roaming around, but no such arrangements were made as far as Wonwoo and Soonyoung know.

“You didn’t have to stay until closing time,” says Mingyu as he walks them both to the subway station. “It must have been a lot to keep up with.”

Soonyoung only offers a curt word of thanks before completely fixating on the footage from today. Also fair. While Wonwoo was busy hanging in the shadows and drinking a damn good G&T, Soonyoung was fully engaged with nearly seven hours of nonstop noise and energy. Wonwoo would’ve passed out less than an hour in.

“You have to do this every day,” he says to Mingyu. “You have quite a lot of endurance.”

“Endurance? Hm, maybe.”

Wonwoo said what he said despite the undone tuck of Mingyu’s dress shirt, the cotton heaviness of his eyes, that obvious smudge on his right eyebrow. Only stage makeup could possibly handle that amount of tumult; this fact is supported by how reluctantly drained Mingyu looks, like a theater performer who’s already thinking of the next showing.

Mingyu rubs his neck. There’s two, three specks of glitter there.

“Can you still read and think properly? Minghao told me that you drank something,” he says. It’s a valiant attempt at sounding lively when his throat won’t let him. “I can’t drive right now, but I could always call you a cab. There’s a bunch at this time.”

Wonwoo shakes his head. “I’m fine, and even if I wasn’t, Soonyoung didn’t drink anything. He’s smart enough to take me home safely, even if he doesn’t look it.”

The addressee quite literally kicks Wonwoo’s ass, which makes Wonwoo stumble and turn around to strangle him—“Screw Jihoon, you’ll _wish_ your will was finished already!” “As if I’m responsible enough to get that shit done early!”—if not for the third party also there, very present, looking at them both like they’re foreigners lost on the way to Itaewon and are arguing about it now.

No, that’s not right. Mingyu doesn’t look confused (and can understand them just fine). It’s just.

For a moment, his gaze finds purchase in Wonwoo’s and suddenly he looks older. He already does from being so exhausted, poor guy, but now he looks more his age, or at least instead of the caricature for young love that built his pedestal. He looks like an adult in his mess who wants…who _wants._

What? What does he want? To say something? To kick a football? To fuck in an alleyway where no one will see or care?

Every vein in Wonwoo’s buzzing body wants to say, _Tell me what you want, quick,_ now _, while my cameraman is still here to record it._

With the way Mingyu is staring at him—with the barest movements in his pupils and the awkward curl of his fingers at his sides—Wonwoo would hazard a guess that Mingyu is, for whatever reason, committing what he’s seeing to memory.

“We’ll be off, then,” Soonyoung says before heading down the escalator to the subway.

Wonwoo presses his lips together, _hard_ , because he’s _smart_ and _knows better_ in spite of the boil in his blood. He knows just how how delicate everything is and that Mingyu being kind isn’t mutually exclusive from being perceptive, either. Like any good study, every participant is allowed an out. Wonwoo isn’t going to let him find it so easily.

“Thank you for walking us here, Mister Kim,” Wonwoo says with a deep, textbook bow. “Please get home safely, considering how much you drank today.”

It’s a dumb thing to say because Mingyu does this seven days a week, but it’s the only thing Wonwoo can think of after eighteen hours too long of keeping eyes wiretapped to the person standing in front of him.

“I live in the area, so that’s no problem,” Mingyu assures him. “Text me when you get home, okay? I’ll sleep better tonight knowing you’ve returned without issue.”

“I will,” says Wonwoo, “let Soonyoung know as well. See you again, Mister Kim.”

Had he not witnessed the other faces Mingyu made today, Wonwoo would be utterly sick of that smile.

* * *

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

I’m home. Soonyoung probably crashed so I am also letting you know that he is also home.

**From: Unknown Number**

Ah, wonderful!!! Sleep tight~~ 🥰🥱😴

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

Are you home safe as well?

Prepare a glass of water, medicine, and something easy to digest for when you wake up.

**From: Unknown Number**

Yes yes yes I am!!

And I will definitely do that!!! ❤️

Good night~!

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

Good night.

* * *

**FILE NO. 05**

**INTERVIEW WITH KIM MINGYU, HOST, STREET 17 HOST CLUB**

**LOCATION: SOUTH KOREA, SEOUL, GANGNAM-GU**

**–Your daily schedule requires quite a lot of preparation, from personal care to grooming to going out with clients, all prior to the actual hosting work. Is that prep work typical for hosting?**

–My preparation is all part of hosting, at least for me personally. That sort of thing really depends on the host, their hosting style, what their clients seem to prefer and so on. Maintaining your cleanliness and appearance is a given, of course; I’d be hard-pressed to say appearances don’t matter. But I work extra hard to treat every day like it’s a special event for each of my clients! We do have many regulars, but a lot of people who come here are also one-timers who are curious or want to celebrate something. Even then, how nice is it for any customer to be treated like their visit is a special one?

**–I can respect that philosophy. We only had a glimpse into one of many workdays, so I was wondering how much changes day to day?**

–The weeks leading up to big events, like holiday specials or certain birthdays, can be really packed with errands and planning and decorating and such. But otherwise, you aren’t missing out.

**–How about after work?**

–What about it?

**–Do you just go straight home? Are there other things you do? Gangnam isn’t the type of city to sleep.**

–You aren’t wrong.

**–Alright. It seems like working out and being healthy is important for you. Is that a consequence of your job, or was that lifestyle something you’ve always preferred?**

–Both? Hosting requires a surprising amount of physical resilience, so health is important! Client satisfaction also improved when I started working out more seriously. _[From the background: And when you started dressing like you could afford clothes!]_ Don’t interrupt, that’s rude! Sorry about Dino, ignore what he says. Anyway, I’ve always been pretty sports-oriented, even when I was still in school. But with my timeline, going to the gym is probably the best compromise I could make.

**–What sports were you interested in before?**

–Oh man, where do I start? I was a swimmer, tennis player, and football player in middle school, but when I hit my growth spurt in high school, I got roped into basketball and volleyball, but I still played football for fun. I could probably talk about them forever, but I’d have to say that football is probably the one I liked the most. I’m usually clumsy on my feet, but the neighborhood team I was on only cared about having fun. I looked up to my team captain a lot. He was this single dad who really loved playing even though work and home life was hard to balance—ah, sorry, I’m rambling again. (laughs)

**–I agree, football is quite enjoyable.**

–You play as well?

**–Played. Past tense, like you.**

–What position did you play?

**–That’s not relevant to—**

–C’mon, is it such a big deal to tell me?

**–I. Suppose not. I was an attacking midfielder. And yourself?**

–Defensive midfielder. See? Having more things in common is always relevant!

**–Indeed. Touching back on something you said earlier, you mentioned that you encounter both regular and one-time customers. Besides visiting frequency, are there other striking differences between long- and short-term patrons?**

–Hm. Well, the long-term patrons are more familiar with me, obviously, so they feel more comfortable talking to me and giving presents and making orders when I suggest them. The ones who visit more than once a week usually like to talk about how stressful a specific day’s been, or continue a story they were telling me on a previous visit. The frequency lends well to longer stories, I suppose.

**–Do you like to talk about yourself with them as well?**

–What’s there to really talk about? (laughs) Their stories are far more interesting than mine. I might tattle a little, like if S.Coups spilled a drink on someone the other day. But I prefer listening to the customers.

**–What sort of stresses do customers usually talk about?**

–Mostly work stress. Sometimes family or financial stress.

**–I’m guessing most, if not all, of your clients are women.**

–Yes. Most.

**–Most? So you have male clients?**

–We see all sorts around here. (laughs) But yes, I do have a handful of wonderful male clients.

**–That’s interesting and quite progressive.**

–I suppose it is. My role is to help whoever comes in to have fun, so I never saw the exclusivity of who we helped. Considering how many lovely ladies we see every day, seeing a guy walk through the door can be quite refreshing!

**–Do they want—are they any different from female clients, would you say?**

–I wouldn’t say so, no.

**–Why do you think people come to a host club? Or, if it’s easier to answer, why do you think clients come to you as a host?**

–Wow, those are big questions! Hm…honestly, everyone is so different. Different problems bring different priorities, which bring different lifestyles and wants. Talking about stress is probably repetitive, so I’ll say this: the world is so competitive, you know? So finding people who will listen to you and care about what you want to talk about—that’s hard. And when you do, there’s no guarantee that they’ll stay. Novice hosts don’t last for a month, maybe six max. Good hosts, a little longer. Great hosts stick to this job for a while. There’s so much uncertainty in life, and that’s scary! But something really amazing about this club is its longevity. Pretty much everyone here right now is here for the long-run, and knowing that I’ll find them here every night is incredibly reassuring.

**–That does sound reassuring. Impermanence or instability can be big concerns for people.**

–Yes, you understand!

**–But I’d contend that that reassurance seems pretty expensive, seeing how high this club marks its drinks. I’d even say that the alcohol is more expensive than the hosts.**

–(laughs) I’ve certainly heard that before.

**–What sort of occupations do your clients undertake? I know you mentioned that everyone is different, but regulars must have jobs that pay well to afford coming here so often.**

–It’s not a secret to say that most of our customers are also nightlife workers. It’s an industry that pays well but can be difficult. Hostesses, for example, comprise a big chunk of any host club’s revenue. Customers with easier expendable income usually come from wealthy families or are businesspeople whose work hours make dating at normal hours quite hard.

**–I sort of understand wealthy people and businesspeople, but is there an overarching reason why hostesses, or those in similar professions, go to host clubs?**

–I can’t speak for all of them, obviously, but a client once told me that it’s nice to be with men who listen to her and ask about her day without intentions of anything more. Her patrons just want to look at her or touch her, brag about themselves, drink drinks to show off money. That sort of sentiment is pretty common among the girls who visit us. People who seek nightlife services want companionship at the end of the day. Just in different forms.

**–Do hosts also go to hostess clubs?**

–Of course, but not to the same extent. Hostess clubs mainly benefit from sources outside nightlife.

**–That’s interesting. Well, I think that’s all the time we have for tonight. I don’t want to hold you up much longer. Thank you again, Mister Kim.**

–My pleasure. And please, you must call me Mingyu. My clients do.

**–Again, I’m not—**

–I know, I know. I’m just saying that it’s alright, especially given how much you’ve seen already. (laughs)

**–Maybe next time. Until then, Mister Kim.**

–Of course, Mister Journalist.

* * *

**SUMMARY** **OF FILES NO. 06-08, 12, 14**

**CLIENTELE PROFILE, VARIOUS**

**LOCATION: VARIOUS**

**CLIENT 1  
Occupation: **Socialite  
 **Age:** No comment  
 **Gender:** Female **  
Attendance:** 1-2x/month  
 **Comments:** Married young to money but is very lonely now. Three kids, no sons, none interested in family life. Feels like she’ll “commit social suicide” if she divorces, so she will not. Says that Mingyu reminds her of her first love in high school. Enjoys his company and the feeling of spending her husband’s money.

**CLIENT 2  
Occupation: **Prostitute  
 **Age:** 18  
 **Gender:** Female  
 **Attendance:** 2x/week  
 **Comments:** Started working in the Mia-ri red light district four months ago after running away from home. Hates her job but does it anyway because it covers bills and food, and lets her spend more time with Mingyu. The more money she gives, the more time she has to talk to him. Lives alone with a stray cat named Sala or “live”, which Mingyu suggested. Hopes to marry him one day.

**CLIENT 3  
Occupation: **No comment  
 **Age:** 22  
 **Gender:** Female  
 **Attendance:** 3-4x/week  
 **Comments:** Claims to have purchased the most expensive bottle offered, cinching Mingyu as number one host of the month for the first time. Also claims to spend millions of won every visit because “[Mingyu] deserves the world.” Wants to marry him because “I love him and want him all to myself. I spend most of my time here and pay the most out of all his clients. If there’s a line, then I’m the first in it.”

**CLIENT 4  
Occupation: **Hostess  
 **Age:** 31  
 **Gender:** Female  
 **Attendance:** 1x/week  
 **Comments:** Visits multiple host clubs because she gets a sense of control that isn’t elsewhere (work, unsteady finances, difficult home, etc.) Says only hosts understand how hard her job is; people outside of nightlife judge her. Claims she truly understands “Mingyu’s pain” and that he understands hers. Mingyu is her favorite. Wants to live with him, or at least have sex with him.

**CLIENT 5  
Occupation: **College student  
 **Age:** 20  
 **Gender:** Male  
 **Attendance:** 1x/2 months  
 **Comments:** Was brought to the host club by a friend for his birthday. Immediately fell for Mingyu’s looks. “It was as if a manhwa character came to life.” Grappled with his identity until Mingyu told him that it shouldn’t matter who he liked “because being a good person is what matters the most.” Another quote: “It might be pitiful for me to keep coming, but for [Mingyu], isn’t it worth it?”

* * *

On the subway train from Busan from their most recent client interview, Soonyoung bumps knees with Wonwoo. For once, Soonyoung isn’t hungrily sifting through the day’s crop of footage or drooling on Wonwoo’s shoulder.

“Nice kid,” he says. “Hopefully he’ll find something to be passionate about.”

Wonwoo flicks through his phone. He isn’t reading anything. “Looks like he already has.”

“Pft, that’s not something you can do forever.”

“What, paying for someone’s attention?”

“Well, yeah, but,” says Soonyoung, yawning, “so is chasing after something that will probably never happen.”

* * *

**From** : **Unknown Number**

Have you eaten already, Mister Journalist~?? 💖

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

I have. And yourself?

**From: Unknown Number**

I did, but I wish someone was with me while I ate 🙃😚👀

ALSO ALSO remind me to bring snacks to our next meeting!!! You don’t eat enough!!! 🥺😣

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

I eat enough.

**From: Unknown Number**

You Do Not!!! 😡😤

**From: Jeon Wonwoo**

Your basis for comparison is yourself, which is unrealistic.

**From: Unknown Number**

Unrealistic?? You wound me, WOUND me 😂

* * *

_Dear_ _Joshua_ ,

_~~These past few days~~ _

_~~I hate feeling like~~ _

_~~I'm going crazy~~ _

_I thought I'd throw this away after the first time. But I can't sleep._

_Is it d_ _é_ _j_ _à_ _vu to feel like you're seeing the same person in a different body? I_ _’_ _ve seen these faces before, a long time ago, in the same person. I once loved that person because of those faces, ~~what does that say about me?~~ before I knew why those faces were there._

_Every client story is the same: some repetitive shit about loneliness or abandonment; feeling found; then love, acceptance, whatever. Fulfillment fantasy isn't a novelty, certainly not in our economy. I think it's pretty revolutionary that human comfort is something you can buy. But everyone looked so distant, as if the outside world didn't offer any other comfort worth clinging on to. They all only wanted one thing, found it, and won't look anywhere else._

_Does Mingyu know this? I find myself asking this question often. Surely he does. And yet, somehow, I have the awful feeling that he thinks he's doing the right thing. I don't know what to do. It'_ _s not my place to do anything._

 _D_ _é_ _j_ _à_ _vu. What a clich_ _é_ _thing to consider. It still surprises me sometimes just how simple we are as creatures._

* * *

One of Mingyu’s clients is celebrating her nineteenth birthday, which really means she’s twenty and legal. With her permission, Wonwoo and Soonyoung are allowed to also stay in the largest private room with her and her host.

“I’d still order drinks,” she says when asked about previous visits. “Since I couldn’t drink them, Mingyu would do it for me.”

“I’ve had to drink so much champagne all by myself because of you!” Mingyu teases, bopping her on the bangs. “You’re such a handful, aren’t you?”

Behind her meticulously decorated fingernails, she giggles. “I don’t have a choice but to get those drinks! It’s not like I can just pay for your time.”

Saying that is both a truth and untruth.

Hosts have flat hourly fees, but buying a host’s time isn’t the same as attracting their attention. A host club’s business model is to hide the actual service in the bottles, after all, since it will look better in the eyes of the law.

Pay more, get paid more attention. That’s just how it works.

(“Is it any different from normal dates?” was a question posed to Wonwoo once. “You pay for a movie, dinner, tickets to visit aquariums or theme parks. You pay for a person’s attention with the hope that they’ll look at you, too.”

“I,” said Wonwoo, “I don’t think it’s the same.”

If asked to elaborate, he didn’t think he’d be able to.)

An order is placed for a whole bottle of Louis XIII, which the client kindly offers to the two who are supposed to be flies on the wall; never mind that, then.

Wonwoo waves a hand. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Mingyu turns to look at him. “Are you sure? We don’t bring this one out very often.”

“I’m the sober one today, so I must respectfully decline.”

“If you’re worried about getting home safely, we’re definitely capable of that. We’ve done it for many guests already!”

Hands. Knees. Porcelain.

Mingyu’s insistence very nearly makes Wonwoo snap and point out that _I_ _’_ _m_ _still on the job, Mister Kim, so don_ _’_ _t expect to capitalize on my hedonism._ Wonwoo’s mouth aches to spit out that _pitying me does nothing, Mister Kim, even with_ _—_ especially _with_ _—_ _an offer you and I clearly know I will never be able to afford on my own. Stop talking to me like we_ _’_ _re friends. This, we, are strictly business._

“Please, go ahead,” he says instead with impeccable neutrality. “Maybe another time.”

At least Soonyoung is happy to partake, given the rarity of this chance. Wonwoo has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his face from pinching; it smells like being in the middle of a burning orchard.

The client is given the commemorative first taste, which she does with barely a sip before uttering, “Ick, it’s so strong! I’m sorry, I really don’t think I can drink this.”

How selfish of her to place the order.

“Well of course!” Mingyu exclaims with a loud swallow. “What’d you expect from ordering the most expensive thing on the menu and having next to no drinking experience, silly?”

How selfish of Mingyu to let her do it.

Mingyu’s scold is entirely void of harshness. It’s meant to be teasing, but having heard iterations of the same thing ad infinitum within these walls, a scold with nothing in it is just empty words. Sounds to fill up space.

“And I was so looking forward to us finally drinking together,” Mingyu laments, eyeing the bottle with obvious calculation, “Boohoo…”

Soonyoung doesn’t even get the chance to breathe on his glass before Wonwoo snatches it from him and downs the liquid fire in a single gulp, heating up his Adam’s apple until that, too, is burning.

For a moment, everyone is dumbfounded. Without missing a beat, Wonwoo does the same thing again. Twice.

“Oi oi, what happened to 'Maybe another time,’ huh?” Soonyoung tries to joke as he grips Wonwoo’s thigh under the table. “Warn a guy before you suddenly switch gears like that!”

“One, is this not another time?” Wonwoo reasons tartly. “Second, you should know me better than that, then.”

Soonyoung sure as hell isn’t going to survive past a fourth of that damn bottle. If it’s going to be emptied tonight, Wonwoo is the second-best person here to help with the disposal.

The client—bless her soul—seems to have good enough intentions to just laugh instead of kicking out this duo for disrupting her private birthday time with Mingyu. If Wonwoo was in her shoes, he sure would’ve.

“Man, my body was so ready for some of that, too,” Soonyoung groans, elbowing Wonwoo in the side. “And I thought _I_ was inviting _you_ on this ride.”

Wonwoo’s chest feels like it’s full of smoke. That’s some really strong cognac, good god. “Shut your face, idiot.”

“Shut _your_ face, indecisive asshat.”

“Oh, you’re not drinking?” the client poses to Soonyoung, who looks startled to be addressed.

“N-No, not when this guy is.” Soonyoung carefully refills Wonwoo’s glass, which is soon emptied. “We made this pact, you see. If the two of us are alone, at least one of us isn’t allowed to drink. For peace of mind and stuff.”

The client blinks. “Really? Aren’t you worried that whichever one of you is drunk will say something embarrassing? Or do something embarrassing?”

“Trust me, go through enough shit with someone for a long enough time and you start moving past embarrassment. Being embarrassing with a sober person you trust isn’t nearly as bad an accident with two drunk idiots, right?” Soonyoung chuckles when he’s nudged. _More,_ or maybe _Quiet_. “Oh! So sorry, I didn’t mean to invade your time, ma’am. Or your, uh, alcohol.”

Even when the smoke in his chest seeps into his eyes, Wonwoo can clearly identify the smile on the client’s round, pretty face. There’s a certain gentility and softness that some are so capable of, it’s almost agonizing to see from someone this lonely and young to the world.

She shakes her head. “That’s alright. Thank you for sharing that with me. It’s always interesting to learn about this sort of stuff.”

“This sort of stuff?” Wonwoo echoes. It’s the best he can do, really, given his circumstances.

Wonwoo senses Mingyu move. Nothing major, just the straightening of his back, an adjustment in the placement of his arms against his sides. But with countless hours of observing everything he does, noticing that subtlety is like watching a car crash in front of his eyes.

“Ah, well, I mean.” Suddenly, the client is as red as if she actually downed a glass. “I don’t have lots of friends—besides Mingyu and the other hosts, of course! So it’s interesting to…to see these relationships. In real life. Not that this isn’t real life, either! Oh gosh, I’m not making any sense, am I?”

Their host downs another glass of liquid amber. It only occurs to Wonwoo now that Mingyu hasn’t spoken in a very long time.

* * *

**EXCERPT** **FROM FILE NO. 09**

**INTERVIEW WITH KIM MINGYU, HOST, STREET 17 HOST CLUB**

**LOCATION: SOUTH KOREA, SEOUL, GANGNAM-GU**

**–This might be a little straightforward, and I apologize for the suddenness of it, but I thought I’d rip the bandaid off already.**

–Of course, go on! Please, feel free to ask whatever.

**–Have you ever had sex with a client?**

–Truthfully, I thought it was going to be more _oomph_ , you know? Like, did this big celebrity ever come like the news said they did? Do you guys do drug stuff here? Which we do not permit! I’ll just say.

**–Okay. Good to know. So…?**

–Mm?

**–My question.**

–Right! Right. (laughs) Okay, now it’s a little embarrassing being asked a second time. Would you be more surprised if I said yes or no? What do you think Mister Cameraman? _[From the background: Hm, probably if you said no.]_

– _[_ ** _Ssh! Now I have to transcribe that!]_ ** **I ask that you refrain from engaging with others while I’m doing these recordings, Mister Kim. It will make documentation easier.**

–Sorry, sorry! I’ll behave.

**–Thank you.**

–So?

**–Yes?**

–My question? Would you be surprised if I said yes or no to having sex with a client?

**–I don’t know how to answer that.**

–There’re just two answers! (laughs) I don’t mean to tease. But see? Isn’t it more embarrassing the second time around?

**–I should reiterate that, if you aren’t comfortable answering the question, you can choose not to answer.**

–I’m aware. But I also know where I am and what I do. Clients are usually cognizant of what my job entails, or at least they figure it out quickly. It’s usually left in the back of their minds, though.

**–I see. Well, I’m grateful for whatever level of candor you’re comfortable providing. May I ask another straightforward question?**

–Please, there’s no need to keep asking! Go ahead.

**–Have ever thought of quitting hosting at any point?**

–Why do you ask?

**–I don’t want to say “live a normal life” since that’s sort of relative. So you can seriously date someone, I suppose? Perhaps start a family one day, if that’s something in your future.**

–Hm…no comment, for real this time. (laughs) Hey! Is this the first time I’ve ever not answered one of your questions like that?

**–If you say so.**

–Hey! (laughs)

* * *

Wonwoo remembers this feeling all too well.

Sitting at his desk. Notes, transcriptions, and memories carefully organized in a binder beside him. Even Soonyoung had sent him a rough framework of clips for his documentary.

Wonwoo is in the perfect condition to start drafting. And yet—his fingers don’t move.

There are a million and one things he is bent on underlining and quoting and forcing readers to read twice, thrice, even four times until they realize just how tragically the same people are. Rich and huffy heiresses, jaded escorts, the everyday man or woman who just wants to get by—no one is safe from experiencing a visceral, cloying loneliness only creatures as social and civilized and arrogant as humans can have.

If this is his crux, what is his foundation?

Prose of nightlife landscapes? Laughable. Describing the film’s opening? Cliché as balls.

Hell, slapping on an eye-catching title and photo then calling it a day would probably rope the numbers his company is so obsessed with. But Wonwoo wants people to take him seriously, _damn it_ , and being immediately met with the face of a pretty boy is sure to make people think, “I have better things to worry about.”

Jeon Wonwoo is a skilled writer. A damn good one. But figuring out where the start starts has always been his biggest obstacle.

Where did it start?

Not with a pretty girl, decorated and hanging off a velvet elbow like an accessory. Not with a mouth, distracting in how it moves too much and is a permanent mental fixture in every audio file. And certainly not with a vast collection of stares and words that dance with so many things unsaid that it feels like the bait Wonwoo is used to throwing himself.

His chest tightens so much he has to force himself to breathe. He is not going to let anything he doesn’t plan for happen.

* * *

Wonwoo and Soonyoung’s time at STREET 17 ends with them as clients. The offer has always been on the table and Wonwoo was doing a good job of ignoring it—but, well.

Soonyoung had insisted, yelling at Wonwoo through the phone that it’s the least he could do for guzzling down half a bottle’s worth of “really fucking expensive cognac, you absolute lunatic! Do you know how heavy you are?! And Jihoon scolded _me_ , too, because somehow it’s my fault that you were _this close_ to being drop dead ugly in a gutter! Also, what’s the point of going to a _host club_ if we’re not gonna get some hosting ourselves?! If it helps your dumb-smart brain to stop making shitty excuses, we’re going there for _me_ and not for you so it’s not ‘on work time’ or whatever so I better see your ass at the station tomorrow at the usual time or I’m going to stab one of your kidneys in your sleep because you’ll still live with one anyway you _asshole_ okay love you bye!”

With that frenzied, very one-sided call, Wonwoo is back at this hellhole with guilt between his legs and Soonyoung far too excited than he deserves to be.

Seungcheol is the first one to greet them, annoyingly enough. Wonwoo feels like he’s being pried apart under a microscope every time they meet.

“Welcome, friendly faces,” says Seungcheol, bowing. “Let me bring you to where Mingyu is.”

A meaningless gesture, really, since Wonwoo could find Mingyu in a blackout with how often he’s been here this past month. Seungcheol knows this, but is probably playing along with the feeble attempt at first-time ignorance.

Upon entering the private room, Mingyu jumps up and exclaims, “Hello hello hello, loves! I’m so glad to see you both! Let’s have fun tonight, okay?”

He tugs Soonyoung into a hug that is happily returned. Wonwoo stiffens like gum in cold water at the wide-eyed look Mingyu gives him over Soonyoung’s shoulder. It’s the same look he uses to ask for a filming break, or a few minutes to change clothes.

Permission is what he wants, and with a step forward, Wonwoo decides it would be objectively rude to not grant it.

Right before he does, it dawns on him that they have only shaken hands before.

Suddenly there’s a surge of too-heavy cologne, the same nose-prickly kind Mingyu wears like it’s his skin. But it’s not his skin because Wonwoo can smell that, too, at the junction of bare neck he is forced to confront now. Arms are tight at the waist. A chin digs too sharply into Wonwoo’s shoulder like teeth biting into a bottom lip. A familiar, practically trademarked laugh resounds in Wonwoo’s left ear and manages to still trail to the right.

So many places are pressed against others. Wonwoo’s head pulses to the distant beat of tonight’s playlist.

He hears “I’m glad you’re here” before Mingyu starts listing off tonight’s specialty cocktails to one set of deaf ears. With the chatter evolving before him, Wonwoo faintly wonders if he’d imagined Mingyu’s words entirely.

This is exactly why he didn’t want to come. His job is his anchor. Without it, he’s bound to get swept away if he’s not careful.

“Why’re you sitting over there? _”_ Soonyoung asks like it’s incredulous of Wonwoo to sit next to him, on the side Mingyu is not. “We’re guests tonight! Sit next to Mingyu, too!”

Wonwoo’s glare is intensely sobering. “If I did, he’d rope me into buying drinks tonight, and I’ve accumulated quite a few no-drinking nights thanks to this place.”

Mingyu’s laugh is boisterous in sight and sound. “You know me too well!”

And so Wonwoo, for better and for worse, lets Soonyoung take center of attention tonight.

He’s the type of buzzed person to find everything anyone says reasonable with a couple margaritas down just half an hour into their allotted two. Mingyu is quick to order another without Soonyoung realizing, which, knowing him, probably appears more thoughtful than sly.

The…appointment carries on rather trivially, thank god. Mingyu easily responds to the excited, occasionally connected strings of sentences spilling out of Soonyoung, who is more than happy to provide an endless stream. Wonwoo only speaks when addressed, sipping sparingly at his ice water and checking his phone for comfort than use.

Three margaritas in and Soonyoung has outlined his entire life story. Add in a vodka shot and he’s draped over Wonwoo like a deflated tube man, now whining about the dumb sensationalism of reality television.

“What’s the point in calling it reality TV,” he slurs helplessly, “when it’s just as fake as making shit up?”

 _Because we_ _’_ _re voyeurs who crave the melodrama we think doesn_ _’_ _t affect us personally_ , Wonwoo won’t say. _Because the fantasy of attainment sells in the billions._ He doesn’t have room to say it.

“That’s enough drinking for you,” he chastises, plucking the drinks menu away from Soonyoung’s wandering hands. “And you wonder why you didn’t get that stupid expensive cognac, idiot.”

At this point Wonwoo realizes that Soonyoung as a barrier isn’t exactly a challenge, especially now that said barrier is getting up with a convincing amount of sobriety before declaring, “I’mma get some fresh air.”

Wonwoo’s blood rate picks up. “What? Then I’ll go with you—”

Soonyoung squishes Wonwoo’s face in his hands and wiggles it around. “Nah, _you_ stay _here_ , buddy. Jihoon gives me enough naggin’, y’know? I dun need to hear it from you right now. I’ll be fine. The boss man’s got cameras outside, right Mingyu?”

“He does.” Unhelpful prick. “I’ll text him to be on guard.”

“Thanks a bunches, brother,” Soonyoung says, as genuine as can be, as he plants a sloppy smacker on Mingyu’s head and wanders off.

Silence starts to fill the leftover space, seeping into Wonwoo like rainwater from a storm. His tolerance for the quiet is as trained as his tolerance for good drinks, and yet this emptiness between him and his host feels even louder and deeper than skin.

“Do you dislike me, Mister Journalist?”

Wonwoo sharply turns his head towards Mingyu—and meets a gaze that is sturdy but not intrusive. His makeup is experimental today, showcasing larger glitter pieces, more darkness and smoke. Wonwoo can’t decide whether it’s fitting or not.

After a moment: “I do not. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come here as often as I did.”

“For work, though.”

“I choose what I want to work on.”

Something naked but indescribable otherwise passes through Mingyu’s face—

“I see.”

—before he drags his eyes away. He drinks his whiskey. The way Wonwoo narrates in his mind every point in the sequence makes the whole thing sound scripted.

He starts wringing his brain to find a way out of here. Fake an emergency text and run? But Mingyu will follow up and ask. Pretend he has a stomachache? But Mingyu will forcibly bring Wonwoo to the hospital. Insist on taking Soonyoung home? There are too many cheap hotels around and Mingyu might think—

Something cool touches the strip of skin on the side of Wonwoo’s hand. If his fingertips weren’t already denting the seat cushion out of tension, it would have jumped so high he’d poke his own eye out.

Wonwoo wills himself absolutely still because he is _not_ a virgin maiden who will twist himself around something as inconsequential as Mingyu’s hand touching his.

“It’s kind of weird, almost, not hearing you ask me questions after everything I say.” Mingyu switches which leg is crossed over the other. “You can, you know, if you still want to. If that makes you more comfortable.”

Wonwoo steadies a breath. “Would you answer them honestly if I asked them?”

“You say that like I’ve been lying to you this whole time.”

Wonwoo zeroes in on a loose thread on his sweater. He’d usually wait to cut it, but now he just wants to yank it off.

“I’ve never assumed that,” he says, sounding convincingly resolute. “I don’t doubt that what you—that you’re saying what you can and will say.”

“Ah, well then,” Mingyu leans just a tad closer, enough to start pressing against Wonwoo’s hand, “That’s nice to know.”

“Since you’re so adamant about striking a conversation while your other client is currently indisposed—”

“You worry a lot about him.”

“He worries a lot about me.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“Right.” Wonwoo’s hand is as tense as a cheap rubber band. He does not move away. “As I was trying to say, since you’re so adamant about what you want—”

“What I want?”

“I’m _curious_ to know why you’d think I would dislike you.”

The question-statement leaves Wonwoo’s near-snarling mouth before he can rationalize the damn thing, which it can’t be since there’s no use for Mingyu’s opinion of the god damn author in his own article. But that doesn’t mean Wonwoo can’t use it. He can spin this. He has done it before.

One hour and forty-two minutes. Eighteen more. If Mingyu truly believes Wonwoo is off work, then Wonwoo might as well start milking the facade because he is _never_ off work.

Neither is Mingyu, Wonwoo considers. It must be a dream for them to ever have a normal conversation.

“That’s why I asked,” says Mingyu. “I couldn’t figure out whether you disliked me or not, if you were just seeing me for your job. You’re sparing with how much you give, if not a little cold about it. I know you’ve never saved my number.”

Wonwoo doesn’t flinch, but he is surprised and can’t help the curiosity that follows.

“But there are—moments,” Mingyu says, “When you offer more than what you have to.”

If Wonwoo really does pierce the fake leather of this cushion, he’ll make Soonyoung cover at least half the cost.

“You do realize that not everyone gives as much as you’re used to receiving,” tests Wonwoo, dry as sand, “Nor does everyone want as much as you want to give.”

“I,” says Mingyu, “I know.”

Wonwoo dares to peek at what face could be paired with such a resigned response. He imagines a dreamy, faraway stare into the horizon, a fond remembrance of a past romance or hot fling with someone real, complex, who maybe never once stepped foot in this club and somehow found Mingyu outside it by the hands of fate.

Wonwoo doesn’t see that. Instead, he finds Mingyu staring down at his lap, where his wrist sits, strapped around it a familiar, ticking accessory meant to be locked away. Why he would choose to wear such an unbelievably valuable item tonight is beyond anyone’s guess.

Fifteen, no, fourteen more minutes.

“That being said,” continues Wonwoo, “as Soonyoung has mentioned several times, we are—I am—technically not here for work right now.”

A long moment passes.

Then Wonwoo adds, “If I may be truly honest myself, there is very little you could say that would be off-putting to me.”

In a stunning lapse of character, Mingyu stumbles over his words, “I-I got that, it’s—I’m just—I’m trying to think of what to say next.”

“Oh?” Wonwoo’s eyebrows raise. “Is the number one host in Gangnam suddenly speechless?”

“I’m collecting my thoughts, thank you!”

“Hm, so there _are_ thoughts inside that brain of yours? I’m surprised, with all the alcohol poisoning you must get.”

“You’re one to talk!”

“That was a cheat day.”

Mingyu audibly splutters. In another surprising upset, he is the first to pull away from Wonwoo’s hand, as if it had suddenly turned into hot coals. A petty victory of sorts.

“It’s not so much a worry over whether I might say something off-putting,” Mingyu says. “I just don’t think there’s anything to offer anymore, or at least anything interesting about me.”

Wonwoo allows himself a snort in disbelief. “As if. Isn’t your entire job talking? How could a host ever be successful if they’re boring?”

“Make everything about the clients. Then you don’t have to worry about making space for yourself.”

It’s ridiculous just how easily a slapdash set of words can flip the tone of their entire conversation. Wonwoo turns speechless himself.

Nine minutes.

“What?” Mingyu asks.

With a shrug, Wonwoo says, “I guess I’m not surprised. Clients are here to complain and flirt and feel better about themselves, not to learn about how much fun being a midfielder was back in school.”

“You—remember that?”

“Of, of course,” Wonwoo says, suddenly feeling cornered. “Human beings are conditioned to remember things they have in common. And,” his throat pinches like a punishment, “it’s interesting. It would be hypocritical for me to think otherwise.”

The sheer, unadulterated astonishment on Mingyu’s face is just about criminal. Wonwoo has enough heart, at least, to feel pity.

From the barren apartment to the gifted wardrobe to even the conversations he is forced to play in every day, this person has rarely, if ever, considered the possibility of being someone outside of what is overtly given to him and what he is trained to give.

In this moment, Wonwoo understands this much: Mingyu is an old dog diligently trained with new tricks. His old tricks are still there, but they don’t make people clap.

Wonwoo knows that life. He’s lived it with every shallow thing he’s written about from shallow celebrity scandals to diet fads just to get food on the table. It’s only now he has the privilege of choice. What a pity.

Five minutes.

“Five minutes,” Wonwoo announces. He starts to gather his and Soonyoung’s things, including a wallet he rifles through to pay for the bill. “Thank you for indulging Soonyoung tonight.”

“Aw, it’s time for you to leave already? Time flies by when you’re having fun, doesn’t it?” Mingyu’s chipper tone is flawless as ever. “Thank you and Soonyoung for coming. I really had a wonderful time.”

No question or anticipation for another visit. At least that doesn’t need to be said.

“Did you? I expected higher standards from the number one host.” Wonwoo’s disbelief is stark. But before Mingyu can make some smooth comment about clearly having high standards—it’s already there, on the tip of the bastard’s tongue—Wonwoo quickly adds, “Quite a poor job at making your clients talk, too. Soonyoung is easy after a mimosa, but _I_ expected to put up a better fight than that.”

Mingyu looks at Wonwoo, squarely in the eye, with that one indescribable, naked expression. It’s as if there is a glass panel between them, fogged from clouds of steam.

And then: “How could I possibly win against someone as ruthlessly clever as you?”

 _You could have tried_ , is Wonwoo’s first thought.

 _Ruthlessly? Clever?_ is the second.

 _You say that like you aren_ _’_ _t clever yourself_ , is the third.

Wonwoo doesn’t get a chance to bite back because Mingyu isn’t finished.

“If I may,” he says, “I do have a question.”

* * *

**EXCERPT** **FROM FILE NO. 15**

**INTERVIEW WITH KIM MINGYU, HOST, STREET 17 HOST CLUB**

**LOCATION: SOUTH KOREA, SEOUL, GANGNAM-GU**

**–Have you ever been in love?**

–My, what a difficult question to answer!

**–You did say I didn’t have to preface my more straightforward questions.**

–(laughs) Indeed I said that.

**–How is it a difficult question?**

–Hm, well, that’s hard for me to say, really. You know all those romantic dramas and films and stuff? Even the people around you always say that there’s a difference between loving someone and being in love.

**–Do you believe in that difference?**

–Do you?

**–This interview isn’t about me, Mister Kim.**

–(laughs) As business as ever. Truthfully, I don’t know. Sorry, I know that’s not very satisfying to hear.

**–Does this mean you’ve been in love with clients before?**

–I mean, probably? I wouldn’t even be surprised if I’ve “been in love”, so to speak, with every client I’ve ever had.

– **Why do you think so?**

–Proximity, conversation, touch—these are the cornerstones for encouraging a feeling of “love” for someone else. They don’t just come from me, right? You’re such a smart cookie, too, so you probably already know where this is going. (laughs) Perhaps my mental fortitude is the problem. I’ve always had a strong body but a bit of a weak heart. (laughs) My mother nags me all the time about it, but it’s not like there’s a gym for that, you know?

**–How do you mean?**

–I mean that training the body is a constant and repetitive thing. But repetition doesn’t train your heart the same way. Oh, oh! It’s like this. There’s this English idiom that I like: “The heart wants what the heart wants.” That’s sort of how I feel about it. Do you know that one?

**–I’ve heard of it before.**

–So you know what it means? You understand what I’m saying, right?

**–I. I think I do.**

* * *

“Soonyoung couldn’t come.”

“Oh. Is he sick?”

“No.” Wonwoo takes the unoccupied seat across from Mingyu. “I didn’t tell him. About this.”

They’re sitting outside, late afternoon, at a subpar coffee shop Wonwoo frequents when writing in his own room gets too stuffy. It’s odd to think that, of all people, Mingyu would choose to use this time to not be with a real client. A part of Wonwoo feels guilty for not bringing Soonyoung along as asked, but then again Mingyu doesn’t appear particularly bothered by it.

“Shall I get us something to drink?” Mingyu asks.

“Don’t bother hosting outside the host club. I’m still not your client, you know,” says Wonwoo without malice. He shows off a sweating plastic bottle of tea. “Besides, I’m trying to cut down the bad drinks.”

“Oh, what for?”

“Is it surprising for me to want to be healthier?”

Mingyu doesn’t laugh, but something like it gleams in his eyes.

Wonwoo takes a swig of his cold oolong. “So,” he says, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? If it’s about compensation, I can contact my manager about the details, but I doubt we could offer much compared to what you’re used to.”

“Money isn’t all I care about,” Mingyu says. “Your time and conversation are enough compensation.”

“Like I said, you can cut the hosting—”

“I’m not hosting.”

_How do you know you're not?_

“Is it surprising for me to want a normal conversation, Mister Journalist?”

Wonwoo bites down the urge to recoil. He hates it when he hears himself in other people.

“You came here alone.” Mingyu pauses, letting thoughts roll around on his tongue. Then: “There must be a reason for that.”

Wonwoo looks at Mingyu for a while and can’t find an answer that doesn’t sound at least a little truthful.

“I felt like,” starts Wonwoo, leaning back into his seat to stare at a point just past Mingyu’s face, “I feel like there’s more overlap between us than I anticipated. I don’t think Soonyoung needs to be privy to that.”

“I thought the same, too.”

A peripheral flash of teeth almost convinces Wonwoo that, no matter what he says now, it doesn’t matter because Mingyu could very well be an imagination. A framework for someone like him could be sitting in the back of Wonwoo’s mind; with all he’s heard and watched and theorized, it’s not implausible. Wonwoo is even tempted to reach over, touch a hand to Mingyu’s cheek to confirm that there is a physical, blood-warmed body on the other side of the table.

Automatic, Wonwoo scoffs and crosses his arms. “How unfortunate, then, for someone so grandiose to see himself in me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Is this a battle of egos now? Because, between the two of us, the winner is clearly decided.”

“Not when you know the weight of a name as much as I do.”

Mingyu says it with ease, like he’d been preparing himself to say it for a very long time. Wonwoo’s mouth twitches to retaliate, but the truth struck too close to its bullseye and all he can do is stare back.

“I’m not as close-minded as you think of me. Your name isn’t hard to search for,” says Mingyu, holding up his phone. There lies Wonwoo’s biography page on his news company’s website. “You’ve had pseudonyms, anonymous posts, numerous uncredited contributions to opinion columns revealed by fellow writers who couldn’t help but gush over you. _You_ , of all people, understand the burden of a real name, how it _is_ you until it stops being that way as people build someone else out of that same name.”

“You don’t know me at all” is as defensive as it is affirmative for how childish it must be for Wonwoo to even say it.

Mingyu doesn’t sound angry or charged. Just intent. That much doesn’t change.

“Work hasn’t left your mind,” he continues. “It doesn’t. Nearly every face you see, every conversation you have, is an opportunity. Even when you try to think otherwise, it’s become a normality you’re too deep in now.”

Wonwoo feels like a house being violently stripped of its paint. It floods with something hot and cruel, but every mechanism in his body is too slow to stop it from reaching his chest.

“And,” continues Mingyu, now wearing that stupid, familiar smile Wonwoo knows like his own knuckles, “You push yourself over and over again until you’re at the edge of your limits. Until you feel like you’ve gotten what you wanted. Even then, you’re not satisfied. You’re never satisfied.”

Wonwoo abruptly stands up, making his wrought iron chair scrape against the pavement with a painful screech. Curiosity looks their way.

“As if _you—”_

“ _I_ _’_ _m_ saying all this,” interjects Mingyu, “because I’m the same. I think you know that already.”

Wonwoo does. He _does_. He just didn’t put it together yet, didn’t have the chance to sit down long enough with his boiling thoughts about his newest muse. To have it presented to him now, from the very person he pledged to gouge dry of secrets, makes Wonwoo feel like the victim he eagerly sought.

The line of his lips becomes sharply upturned. “So what? Is that what you wanted to meet me for? To tell me that you’ve figured me out because you’re _so_ good at doing that to get an extra wine bottle on your paycheck?”

“Not at all,” says Mingyu. “It’s just—nice. To know I’m not the only one who feels this way.”

Seeing that stupid fucking smile, even when Wonwoo is a hair’s width away from snapping, makes a traitorous part of Wonwoo think that that’s the only response Mingyu knows in the face of anger he has caused. How many clients has he lost to that smile?

“It really was a good idea that you didn’t bring Soonyoung along.”

Now thoroughly disoriented, Wonwoo sighs—“Yeah, you got that right"—and drops back down to his seat. He guzzles down his tea until the bottle crunches loudly in its emptiness.

Then, Wonwoo asks, “Are you lonely?”

Mingyu’s eyes dart to meet his. It really is unpleasant, hearing your own weaknesses in someone else’s mouth.

“I recognize that it’s a hard question to answer,” admits Wonwoo. “I have to ask myself that question often.”

“Are you lonely, then?”

“I asked first.”

Mingyu purses his lips like he’s wringing a towel.

After a long moment, he says: “I think I am. Which is strange, considering how many people I’m around every day around the hour.”

“That’s not strange,” Wonwoo counters. “You aren’t alone, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling lonely. That isn’t something other people can change for you.”

Mingyu’s eyes are shining. That one client was right. Mingyu really does look like he came out of a manhwa.

Wonwoo goes on, “You asked me the same question. While we do overlap in many ways, I think it’s there that we part.”

Mingyu blinks, angling his head down. “When did it stop for you?”

“I,” says Wonwoo, rapidly flipping through the winding timeline of his life. Soonyoung from recess comes to mind, and Jihoon from a random music elective. There’s Jeonghan who took a chance on him, and Joshua who never stopped giving Wonwoo chances. “I don’t really know. I’ve been writing for god knows how long, but figuring out where things start and stop is something I still struggle with.”

“I see. That’s also something I can understand.”

Wonwoo lets the sharpness in his face soften. Being read like a book infuriates him like no other, but no good will come from blasting a taller, richer, younger reflection of his worst parts.

“I have another question,” says Mingyu, “If you don’t mind.”

“You’d ask it even if I did mind.”

Mingyu doesn’t look remotely apologetic. “How did that drinking rule between you and Soonyoung come about? The one where only one of you can drink.”

Crushed plastic. The sound of it alerts Wonwoo of his tightening grip around the empty tea bottle.

“I don’t—it’s okay if—”

Wonwoo exhales, loud and slow. “It’s fine. There’s no harm in letting you know. Did you ever read my previous articles? There’s one about a girl who joined a rather…fanatical group.”

“I did.”

“I was dating her at the same time she was in the process of joining,” Wonwoo says. “When she disappeared without notice, I was distraught. But then I wondered: was it because I was in love with her? Or because I wasn’t finished writing?”

He catches Mingyu fiddling with a loose thread in his shirt. It’s becoming quite the motif.

“Soonyoung and I were roommates at the time. We went drinking. We drank a lot. Then we headed home. Outside the barbecue, as I was waiting for the signal to cross the road, I saw her on the other side.”

“ _What?”_ is the unbelieving response. “Are you serious?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “Who knows? I was balls drunk and my only companion that night wasn’t any better. I would’ve crossed the road into a speeding taxi if Soonyoung didn’t pull a miracle from his ass to drag me into a nearby candy store. Somehow made it back home. Our mutual friends didn’t let us hear the end of it.”

“Woah,” breathes Mingyu. “That’s. Wow.”

“Truly, you are a scholar of our time,” Wonwoo says, which earns him a kick under the table. He probably deserved that. “Question for a question.”

“Why am I not surprised? That’s fair, though.”

“What is cooking to you? You seemed pretty secretive about it before.”

It’s not often Wonwoo is really taken aback, but then he is upon seeing the rush of color seep into Mingyu’s cheeks.

“Um, well, my mom, she,” Mingyu coughs, brings a hand to his neck, “She never let anyone except Dad or me or my sister watch her cook. She said that to nourish someone is to love them, and that to show them the process is an exchange of that. I guess the secrecy or whatever is because it helps me stay more connected to her, my family, while I’m here. And it’s—precious, to me.”

When Mingyu looks at him, blood threatens to creep up past Wonwoo’s shirt collar, which he does not allow by zipping up his jacket.

“So you cooked for me and Soonyoung anyway?” he is compelled to ask.

“It’s not like I could force you to buy food for yourselves!” Mingyu vehemently, comically protests. “That’s terrible hospitality!”

“You most certainly could have. _We_ were the ones invading _your_ home.”

“ _I_ invited you inside!”

“Because we asked you to do so for our project.”

“Well, _well,_ ” Mingyu’s mind is flopping around for a response, “With all those texts I must have sent—which I _know_ annoyed you at some point or another, knowing you—then I guess we’re even!”

Wonwoo is well and truly helpless to the laughter that follows. This is ridiculous. _They_ are ridiculous. Even Mingyu looks mystified at the display before him, as if trying to discern if Wonwoo is the same person who was mentally running an algorithm of curses only moments prior.

With a steadying breath, Wonwoo says: “Maybe we are. I’d be okay with that.”

With distant but unquiet dread, Wonwoo surrenders to the feeling that he’ll never get tired of that stupid, _stupid_ smile.

* * *

Even though Mingyu is the one who requested for Wonwoo’s time, Wonwoo feels shitty for honestly not offering as much as Mingyu has given him. The least he can do is to walk Mingyu home. He had taken the taxi here and was more than willing to do it again, but Gangnam is barely a twenty-minute stroll from the coffee shop and even Wonwoo can see that today is a good, clear day for fresh air.

Dozens of familiar roadside shops are frequented by students in the neighboring campuses. A bland dress shirt and trousers aren’t enough to dilute the eye-catching height and shoulders of Mingyu’s figure, so Wonwoo figures there was _some_ merit to Mingyu mentioning half that criteria in one interview. Rarely is Mingyu the type to wander off given that he’s paid to flatter, but this entire area is weirdly new territory to him. An awe is about him with every passing display window.

“You’ve never been around here before,” Wonwoo observes aloud, eyeing Mingyu eyeing a pair of painstakingly painted pottery bowls covered in swirling, chaotic patterns.

Mingyu shakes his head. “This is a university town, right? So no, not really.”

“What about student clients?”

“They’re usually more clandestine. Want to keep private and school life separate and all that.”

“Have you ever considered going to university?”

Mingyu’s excitement turns static for a moment. “I have a job that pays well, a nice place to stay. I can buy anything I could possibly want. I can pay for my sister’s tuition in full and still support my parents.” He turns to look at Wonwoo. “What else could going to university help with?”

“Not everything can be bought,” says Wonwoo. “Some things have to be earned.”

Something unreadable passes through Mingyu’s face.

Before he can set the bowls down and take off—he’s been doing this, checking out uni shops and family stores only to leave without a purchase—Wonwoo grabs the bowls from his hands and heads to the checkout counter.

“Mister Journalist—”

“Wonwoo.” A credit card is placed on a small tray. “Or hyung. Whichever.”

A familiar pulse blooms in the back of Wonwoo’s skull, magnified by the uncharacteristic silence behind him. Wonwoo does not allow himself to look at what he has caused this time.

_Not everything can be bought. Some things have to be earned._

The silence continues to swathe them like a thick and uncomfortable blanket all the way to Mingyu’s high-end apartment building. Just past the entrance of the lobby, Wonwoo holds up the paper bag of carefully wrapped, handmade bowls.

“Well, I’m sure you have a lot to prepare for, so I’ll just…” Wonwoo is already figuring out the directions and time needed to get back—

There’s a tightening pressure around his wrist. Still escapable. Still with intent.

“It’s an off day,” says Mingyu.

“Oh. You have those?”

“I don’t usually take them, but I made a request.”

“Oh,” says Wonwoo again, dumbly. “Rest up then.”

He says that, yet he doesn’t pull away. Mingyu hasn’t taken the bag yet.

“Let me make dinner for you,” says Mingyu with an unexpected but unmistakable quiver to his voice. “Wonwoo.”

* * *

The gifts Wonwoo so kindly bought will not be received otherwise—should’ve expected that from someone used to more—so he reluctantly assents. The blanket of quiet is still present. Easier to digest than actual words, that’s for sure.

Mingyu’s place is as bare as ever, but the practicality of the image morphs into other, sadder words now that Wonwoo knows more than he should about the owner.

“We can start using those,” Mingyu says, pointing at the bag still in Wonwoo’s grip. “How about you wash them while I prep?”

It takes a second for the weight of the question to hit him—and then, like a meteor tasting gravity for the first time, it crashes. Wonwoo’s mind is running miles a minute so his body has to pick up the slack, but it’s only really capable of doing as asked of him.

So he washes the bowls. Picks out plates, utensils. Finds a few glasses and wonders out loud whether he should fill them with ice or not.

Mingyu likes ice, he says. So he’ll get ice.

Wonwoo strains to fix his severe gaze on anywhere but Mingyu because hearing and smelling and _sensing_ whatever it is he’s doing is enough to make the lavish emptiness of this space too suffocating. Internally, Wonwoo is thankful for the high quality of Mingyu’s glassware because he might have done to them what he did to the plastic tea bottle earlier.

“I hope you don’t mind reheated rice,” Mingyu says as Wonwoo glares down the buzzing microwave. “It’s always better fresh, but I feel like you’d yell at me if I didn’t use what was in the fridge.”

Wonwoo hums a noise. He isn’t going to give Mingyu the pleasure of being right.

The response somehow offsets Wonwoo’s careful mental gymnastics, so he finds himself looking askance and seeing—Mingyu, since that’s all there is to look at, really. Shirt sleeves are bunched up to his elbows, uneven, with one hand on his hip and the other holding a tasting saucer to his lips; they’re quirked and soft, satisfied with the balance of spice with a bit more salt.

When Mingyu waxed poetic earlier about his mother’s kitchen philosophy, Wonwoo thought it was your prototypical Mama’s Boy bullshit. Now he understands, even if a mere fraction.

The microwave beeps like a morning alarm. With one more breath to steady himself, Wonwoo brings over the rice.

As they pick at the steaming kimchi stew that’s definitely a Passed On From Grandma sort of recipe, turns out good conversation isn’t exclusive to hosting. Mingyu makes carrying a near one-man show look like child’s play. He prattles on and on about nothing if you pay attention, which can’t be said for Wonwoo, but Mingyu talking means Wonwoo isn’t and the night is probably better off that way.

Except dinner is a finite thing the same way the passage of time is, so it isn’t long before the food buffer is exhausted and all that’s left is Wonwoo, Mingyu, and the same empty space that keeps settling between them.

“How was it?” Mingyu is wont to ask.

“Good,” Wonwoo is obliged to answer. “But you’re right, it would’ve been better with fresh rice.”

Mingyu nods. His expression is exactly the same as once before. At that time, it was about nineteen minutes past midnight, standing in front of the nighttime glow of the subway station entrance to see off two near-strangers after filming with them since six in the morning. The gesture seemed just courtesy back then, as most of Mingyu’s gestures are.

But now, Wonwoo sees no varnish in that look. It is a house stripped of its paint.

Mingyu’s eyes move to the stone pot where a hearty kimchi stew once bubbled. He pauses. Then he looks back at Wonwoo.

“I’m guessing you don’t do this often,” Wonwoo says.

“I do not,” Mingyu says back.

What he really means is: _This is who I am. These are my intentions_. _Will you take them?_

After an indulgent thought, Wonwoo stands and motions Mingyu to do the same. When he does, Wonwoo starts stacking the dishes, piling the utensils and glasses on the lip of the plates before handing them to Mingyu, who takes them without question.

Wonwoo’s hands settle gently against Mingyu’s knuckles, tracing their stiff rigidity before trailing down the goosebumps of Mingyu’s bare forearms, to the bunched-up cloth at his elbows, all the way to the sloppy collar of Mingyu’s shirt. Wonwoo fixes the left fold, then the right. Mingyu is perfectly unmoving throughout.

Wonwoo says, “Take care of the dishes.”

“Oh. Right, that’s—important.”

With a sharp tug on that now-fixed collar, Wonwoo forces Mingyu down into a kiss. He intended for it to be soft, like a first taste of a delicious meal, but he must have done it hard enough to feel the resistance of Mingyu’s teeth behind his lips.

Wonwoo pulls away and quietly huffs against the warmth of Mingyu’s open mouth. “The new bowls need to be hand-washed,” he says. “I’ll be waiting in the—your bedroom.”

What he really means is: _You have one more chance to reconsider. I won_ _’_ _t wait long for an answer._

With nary a glance behind him, Wonwoo makes quick work of the distance towards his destination. Every step is thunderous. His chest tightens painfully, like a defense mechanism that refuses to yield any more precious breath when drowning is imminent. A part of Wonwoo recalls that he didn’t offer a decision—he offered an option. But another part of Wonwoo, darker and weaker and yearning to be satiated, claims otherwise.

Seeing the neatness of the bed turns Wonwoo’s mind into a minefield: Does Wonwoo really want this? Is this just a product of procedure? How possible is it for Mingyu to be convinced by his own actions that this is something _he_ wants?

The distant sound of the dish washer is dull but loud. With nothing to grip onto, Wonwoo doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You’re still here.”

Wonwoo keeps his back pointed at the door. Which he failed to close, it seems.

“I said I would be here,” he says. He’s holding onto his own wrist, taut enough to form creases in his skin and remind him that he’s still here, that he still _feels_. What a terrifying thing to remember.

Wonwoo doesn’t look up when he senses Mingyu move to face him. He doesn’t stop Mingyu from undoing his hands, or from holding those hands with a tightness that isn’t easy to break free from this time.

“Hyung.”

Any response Wonwoo prepared evaporates with the kiss Mingyu pushes into the shadowed gap between his lips. Before, it was hard and fast and more of a signal than a message. This time, it’s softer but deep and far more unbearable in the half-sighs half-hums Mingyu makes every time their lips aren’t pressed tight.

His thumbs are rubbing slowly, firmly into Wonwoo’s wrists. A show of comfort at first, to tell Wonwoo that it’s okay, this is okay. But Wonwoo has long been acutely aware of his own heartbeat—and there it is, at the veins of his wrist, where Mingyu searches for the raw confirmation that, no, he isn’t alone in his volatility.

Wonwoo manages to scrape at Mingyu’s lip with his teeth before pulling back. Seeing Mingyu chase the contact makes Wonwoo exhale heavily.

He brings Mingyu’s fingers to rest at the jugular of his neck.

“Can you feel it better?” he murmurs.

One hand is still. The other finds the back of Wonwoo’s head.

“God, do I,” Mingyu sighs out before pulling Wonwoo’s hair like a lever to his neck.

Wonwoo rasps wildly as Mingyu kisses gently then harshly then gently again at the junction between his neck and jaw; payback for that lip bite, probably. Wonwoo has to push Mingyu into the edge of the bed just to keep his knees from buckling beneath him, but now he’s straddling Mingyu’s hips and the angle only grants easier access to the skin bracketed by Wonwoo’s chin and shirt.

A jolt of hot pain blooms at Wonwoo’s collarbone before it’s licked over once, twice, and then a grin is pressed to the pinpoint ache. Cheeky bastard.

Grinding his knee between Mingyu’s legs is more than enough to distract Mingyu into another mouthy kiss. Wonwoo can’t tell whether the numbing feeling is because of the fervor of the motion or the lingering heat of their dinner, so he kisses harder, _more_ , wants to map the lush expanse of Mingyu’s mouth like it’s a discovery that could change an entire planet’s geography. Weeks of staring at this frustrating mouth, the way it turns into a frustrating smile, fuel Wonwoo's bursts of pushing against that very frustration.

Mingyu is the one to separate this time, to stare into Wonwoo’s eyes with a warmth and seething arousal that paralyzes Wonwoo’s throat; for once, words are inadequate. Slow kisses are planted onto Wonwoo’s temple, his ear. Mingyu’s hands brush up the expanse of Wonwoo’s back and shoulder blades before settling at the curve of his spine between his hips. His palms are not-so-subtly nudging Wonwoo’s jeans down.

Wonwoo snatches Mingyu’s hands. The urgency makes Mingyu stop entirely. In this lapse of intensity, they are both heaving and sweat-dampened with effort.

In a single, fevered movement, Wonwoo throws his shirt off like a whip. Mingyu watches him do it with pupils devoured in black color.

“If yours isn’t off in the next five seconds,” Wonwoo says with a press of his knee, which is more than enough with the half conditional before Mingyu nearly tears off his own shirt. In the same motion, he twists Wonwoo into the bedsheets with a force unforeseen but certainly not unwelcome.

Wonwoo groans at all the new points of pressure across his body. One of them is lower down, two sources of unbearable heat next to one another, like oversaturated watercolors on the verge of blending together. Because he can, Wonwoo rolls his hips up in a long and delicious display of control. Being below doesn’t change who’s really on top.

Mingyu’s breathing is heavier than ever, but his teeth are glinting, like an animal presented with a challenge. “You really know how to drive me crazy, don’t you?”

Wonwoo runs a fingernail down the naked, hardened planes of Mingyu’s chest. “You say that like it isn’t the first time.”

“It’s not,” says Mingyu before finding purchase again at Wonwoo’s neck with his mouth.

He laves at the lightning veins there, working at Wonwoo’s growing pulse before moving down to the unmarked stretch of Wonwoo’s damp, flushed skin. The conflicting directions of where to go next are so clear on his face, it’s almost comical, so Wonwoo makes the decision for him by shoving down his own jeans and briefs with a familiar, dangerous quickness.

Ah, well maybe that doesn’t help with Mingyu’s indecision.

“You look so surprised,” says Wonwoo with a grasp on Mingyu’s cheek, “for someone who did the same thing to me before.”

Mingyu kisses into Wonwoo’s palm before swiping one more from his lips. “Context is everything, you know.”

“You’re talking to someone who writes about people for a living. Of course I know that.”

The scorching spark in Mingyu’s gaze suddenly turns gentle, like the embers of a dying bonfire. A tingling sensation pools at Wonwoo’s fingertips, where they’re stroking the skin beneath Mingyu’s shining eyes.

In a split second, Wonwoo reevaluates what just occurred: for Wonwoo, who plays life like it’s chess and has plans down the alphabet with a few more for good measure—what he said was a serious admission. Wonwoo is acknowledging the naked truth presented before him, staring Wonwoo down as if pure abandonment is one daring touch away from engulfing Mingyu entirely.

And, now, Wonwoo has done nothing but hold it all in his arms.

Since day one, he’s been busting ass to talk and tease himself into the depths of Mingyu’s mind for a juicy story—only to find Mingyu’s heart instead, as if their roles were reversed completely.

When Wonwoo pulls Mingyu down, he follows with an ease that makes Wonwoo’s whole body seize with a tenderness, long forgotten.

One kiss: _this_ is for those abominable text messages.

Another: _this_ is for your grossly endless amount of affection.

And again: _this_ is for the way you look at me like I’m first and only other person in the world—and for making me feel like it’s true.

With Mingyu’s forehead against his, Wonwoo whispers with vicious resolve: “Take everything off. And you _better_ have lube and condoms.”

The weakly-veiled threat falls on eager ears. That, and Mingyu stumbling out of bed to the dresser, is the only reason Wonwoo forgives Mingyu for leaving him bare and in the cold.

Between the two of them, Mingyu is the gallant, effervescent spirit with a confidence that can only come from wealthy experience. And yet, when Mingyu returns to the bedside, Wonwoo can’t not see the shake of his fingers around his gatherings.

Wonwoo “pft”s as he crawls over and stands on his knees to kiss Mingyu’s cheek, to smooth his hands over the broadness of Mingyu’s shoulders. Wonwoo only has that singular glimpse of Mingyu bare in memory, so being able to see it all now, at his own pace and under his own hands, is indescribably exciting.

“Have you done this before?” Wonwoo asks with nothing but kindness. “Women, men, whoever.”

“I,” says Mingyu, “have. For all three.” So more than once, Wonwoo notes, but the tone suggests not as often as expected of the job. That’s fine. Wonwoo knows this position well enough.

He cradles Mingyu’s quivering hands in his, divests Mingyu of the necessities and sets them close by. Mingyu is led to sit against the cushioned headrest of his bed, lap now full of another person who may be shifting around too much for it to be unintentional.

“Your self-control and chivalry certainly precede you,” Wonwoo says, bringing to the edge of his mouth Mingyu’s still-shaking fingers, “Mister Kim.”

Mingyu swallows twice. “You can, you can say my name, too. You let me say yours.”

Indeed, that is the case.

“Then,” Wonwoo’s head dips down around Mingyu’s fingers, long and diligently well-kept for display.

And now they’re going to be for use.

“Mingyu,” Wonwoo says, but lighter as he properly closes around what’s in his mouth. “Mingyu,” Wonwoo sighs before a suck sharp enough to make Mingyu gasp. “Mingyu,” Wonwoo finishes with a slick mumble before slicking up those fingers even more with lubricant.

Mingyu sounds like he’s focusing all his energy just to _breathe_ as Wonwoo coaxes him to move those fingers where they should go. Wonwoo feels a shudder wrack through his body as they do. And then, when Mingyu accidentally curls a finger a little too much, a strangled noise expels through the cage of Wonwoo’s teeth; it happens again when the movement stops being an accident.

“Here?” Mingyu murmurs, nose to Wonwoo’s cheek. _Context is everything._

“Yeah,” Wonwoo confirms with a short, grounding kiss to Mingyu’s lips. “I am.”

He can barely keep himself upright as those fingers are slowly replaced, and even less so when Mingyu snaps his hips on instinct—wrenching a cry out of Wonwoo without a choice—only to apologize right after.

Wonwoo is powerless to the laugh that follows.

“You look like you want to devour me one second and then like you’ve kicked a puppy in the next. You are absolutely baffling.”

Mingyu, with all his trim musculature and unending riches, is still fully capable of blushing. “For someone who was all cold business before and just sucked my fingers a few minutes ago, you aren’t any better.”

“I never said I was,” says Wonwoo, punctuating his words with a criminal roll of his hips.

Wonwoo is the type to grow almost silent once the movements pick up, having overcome the surprise of the first few blows of pleasure. But he still gasps for air, knuckles whiting out from their vice grip on Mingyu’s tense shoulders. His dark hair darkens even more as it curls around his face from the sweat. A hot tongue at his throat, and the new locus of heat sucked into it, doesn’t help Wonwoo’s cause.

In the haze of the moment, he realizes something.

This back-and-forth of power and yield is different from before. Their words were once weaponized, ready to strike at the crack of composure like a clam to scorching heat. Here and now, every press and kiss and tightness and surrender are just as they are, and nothing more. Realizing that nearly does Wonwoo in.

Something warm and watery decorates Mingyu’s face in rivulets. “I’m almost—hyung, Wonwoo, I’m going to—”

Wonwoo wipes Mingyu’s face the best he can before kissing him hard, deep, as if it’s the last kiss they’ll ever share together.

Over and over again until they finish, Wonwoo says: “I’m here. I'm here.”

* * *

_Dear_ _Joshua,_

_What does it mean to fall off a cliff's edge after knowing the path taken would certainly lead to it?_

* * *

“There’s something for you on the coffee table.”

That’s the first thing Jihoon says when Wonwoo returns from another editing session. In the last several, rather dull days, the autumn hasn’t stopped being offensively dry and Wonwoo is one nose pick away from bleeding out.

“I found this at the doorstep earlier,” Jihoon continues. He sounds like he’s in the kitchen reheating something. “No promises it’s not booby-trapped.”

Lo and behold, there really is a mysterious package on their coffee table. A paper bag, by only that description, sounds cheap if not for the thick, smooth paper and rope-like silk handles. A logo is embossed on the front, some title in English printed in gold foil inside. No doubt, this is a rich people paper bag.

Wonwoo stares at the damn thing for a good minute before snatching it and looking inside.

First, there is a small note spritzed with too much of a familiar scent:

> _Dear Mister Journalist,_
> 
> _Thank you for everything. I am better having known you._
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  Mister Kim_
> 
> _P.S. The cologne is Noir by Tom Ford._

Second, there is a box about the size of a large fist. Inside the box is a well-crafted case held closed by a button snap.

Seething, quiet, and as soft as weeks of accumulated frustration could possibly sound:

“You fucking idiot.”

To the untrained eye, the plain leather straps, plain gold face, and the absence of any complications would make such a watch tragically unremarkable. But Wonwoo’s eyes are anything but untrained.

* * *

He isn’t surprised to find Mingyu absent at the host club. The lack of absurd text messages is explained by the fact that Mingyu’s phone was club property, so when a host quits—which he had the audacity to do—it’s cleared and returned to the club. Other hosts are also sworn to reveal nothing, as is their right to do so.

“We ask that you not go to his apartment, or try to send him anything,” says Seungcheol with a biting severity that must only be taken seriously. “He’s had too many…unnecessary experiences of appearances without notice.”

When Wonwoo is prepared to shoot one justification after another as to why he’s different from the others, that he isn’t just someone from work to Mingyu, he realizes with abject horror: that’s what every other “special client” must have believed as well.

All Wonwoo can do is bow as deeply as he can with the weight of this loss on his shoulders. He did this. He must have.

“If it helps,” says Seungcheol, “I’ve wanted this for Mingyu. For a while.”

Wonwoo is unable to lift himself up. Still: “I’m sorry?”

“There are some chapters in life that need to close before a new one can start." Seungcheol presses a hand to Wonwoo’s shoulder and lifts him up. His eyes aren’t probing for once. “I promise that Mingyu, and the rest of us, looks forward to the fruits of your project. Thank you and your friend for your hard work.”

With nothing else to say, Wonwoo bows again and starts walking back to the subway station.

Through the empty streets of Gangnam half past noon on a cloudy but bright day, Wonwoo mutters to himself:

“You might be better having known me, but I am worse having known you.”

* * *

** The Price of Mirrors: A precarious peek into being the number one host in Gangnam **

_September 9, 2020_

_Article by Jeon Wonwoo  
Video directed by Kwon Soonyoung_

GANGNAM-GU, SEOUL—Precarity. It’s the less familiar twin of “precariousness,” meaning the state of unpredictability, insecurity, and instability. South Korea’s uprooted economy in the late 1990’s fostered an era of pushing forward, the constant feeling of being on edge and, ultimately, lack of fulfillment. Modern social precarity thus laid the groundwork for a boom in host clubs, where love can be bought with just a glass (or two) of luxury cognac.

On the fence of agreeing is Kim Mingyu, oft regarded as the top host in Gangnam. Outlined in this article and accompanying documentary, his private life reveals as much about hosting as it does a population starving for “true love”…

**[CLICK TO READ MORE]**

* * *

Sheer merit doesn’t matter as much these days as before. Wonwoo will be the first to acknowledge that, so he doesn’t actually mind that the article and film blew up because some pretty-faced, charming-mouthed social media goliath mentioned it in less than 140 characters.

Having only met Seungkwan once at Soonyoung’s birthday bash two years ago, Wonwoo had no idea the guy had that much power. Being a retired idol helps, probably, but even Wonwoo still remembers how easily Seungkwan could light up a room by just being in it. He’s a good egg. Seungkwan is hard not to like.

Though he and Soonyoung do a good job of challenging that thought when they come to Wonwoo with a request—or, rather, with a debt to pay.

“Fine, I get Seungkwan,” Wonwoo says as he scowls at Soonyoung, expression in a very unflattering twist. “ _You,_ I don’t owe shit.”

Soonyoung blows a raspberry. “Without me, you wouldn’t’ve had anything to write about! You even got a good dicking out of it so what’re you even complaining about—”

Seungkwan, good guy Seungkwan, puts his pretty face at risk by physically stepping between Soonyoung’s ugly-ass mug and Wonwoo’s violent enthusiasm to stab a hand through his soon-to-be dead best friend’s chest.

“If not for him, then for me?” Seungkwan tries to reason despite the ill-restrained laugh in his mouth. “I think you two could hit it off. Even if you don’t, I at least want to cheer’m up. They’re a good friend, I promise.”

Wonwoo shoots Soonyoung an angry, interrogative glare.

“As if I’d know who the fuck it is,” Soonyoung says, huffing. “It’s called a blind date for a reason, stupid.”

Luckily, Seungkwan dodges fast enough to avoid getting elbowed in the nose when Wonwoo dives for Soonyoung’s vulnerable throat. If he didn’t want to be strangled, he should have covered it up and shut his mouth.

Saying no to Seungkwan is hard in the end, and it’s not like Wonwoo would have much to lose saying yes. So he does.

In the same busyness that has seen Soonyoung for his documentary, the last couple months have seen Wonwoo in discussions, virtual panels, and other guest events for the article he’d written. Journalists rarely accumulate much mainstream fame in Korea (unless they do something real shitty), but, by the journalism sphere’s metrics, Wonwoo is definitely making his way up. Jeonghan buries himself in management to keep himself out of board meetings, while Joshua lends the occasional soothe-saying word to keep Jeonghan from tipping into actual mania.

“How is the journaling going?” Joshua had asked Wonwoo once. “Burn the book yet?”

“No, I’m still using it,” Wonwoo had said. “I address all my entries to you, you know.”

“Oh, why is that?”

Truthfully, Wonwoo never really thought about it. It just became habit and, compared to everything else he’s experienced, the strangeness of it never occurred to him.

“I guess it’s like writing a letter,” said Wonwoo. “Having a name in mind helps anchor what I’m going to write next.”

Joshua just nodded before Wonwoo was swept by Jeonghan into another slew of scheduling conflicts.

Wonwoo had to fight him tooth and nail to keep his Friday evenings regularly free of adult obligations, so it’s the only time he can offer Seungkwan with the certainty of showing up. Now that Wonwoo is awkwardly standing in front of a hole-in-the-wall mom and pop noodle shop fifteen minutes before the actual meetup time, he thinks that maybe he should text Seungkwan about an interview he’d forgotten about or something.

He doesn’t get the chance when he senses a presence nearby.

“Wonwoo?”

His skin immediately inflames, as if he’d gone through Pavlov’s bootcamp to react that way, like routine.

Wonwoo’s eyes chase the sound down, and when they find its source, the single thing echoing over and over in his mind is:

“Mingyu.”

The frills and gilding are mostly gone, save for a few pretty bracelets and rings. Wonwoo is genuinely surprised at how plain Mingyu looks when the opposite occupies more memories of him than otherwise. But then Wonwoo is reminded all over again of that last meeting—that last, breath-taking night—and is reacquainted with the thought that this, _this_ is still Kim Mingyu.

The blank surprise on Mingyu’s face cracks into confusion. “What are you doing here? Ah, wait, I should really start by congratulating you on the success of your project! I honestly didn’t know what to expect but the video and article together were really just amazing. Even my friend, he—hold on.” Mingyu pauses; the turning gears are clear on his face. “You know Boo Seungkwan.”

Good guy Seungkwan is no longer good, Wonwoo mentally revises.

“I do,” he says, sighing. “Through Soonyoung, actually, so I really should’ve known this would happen. I’m guessing you know Seungkwan as well?”

“We’ve been friends since we trained at the same company. Now he just forces me to watch his improv shows which aren’t that good, honestly, but what can you expect from student actors—”

“Student?” Wonwoo asks even though he knew full well that Seungkwan is still in university. “Does that mean you’re…?”

“Oh, no,” Mingyu says, shaking his head. “Not until next term. I’m surprised that it’s that soon, actually, since entrance exams are hard to take out of school. But my sister gave me a _lot_ of hell while studying for it, so I guess it paid off…” and he rambles on, just like that.

For a while, Wonwoo lets himself stare. Can you blame him? Even if the forefront of his brain has been preoccupied with figuring out how to adult with a job that miraculously pays the rent—Wonwoo still keeps the raw audio files, the footage Soonyoung used and didn’t, the perfectly accessible option of going to Gangnam all over again. Wonwoo hasn’t gone there in a long time. Now he doesn’t have to, it seems.

Then Mingyu says, firmly, “I haven’t changed much yet, but I’m getting better, I think.”

Something like a drop of water in a long-still lake flutters in Wonwoo’s chest. He is a filament of willpower away from smooching the shy and embarrassed but faintly proud look off of Mingyu’s face. As the two of them are now? Perhaps not. Not yet.

And so: “So what are you doing now? Do you have a job? Are you still living in the same place? Scratch that, we’ve got a date, so might as well make use of the time,” says Wonwoo with a subdued eagerness not just for dinner. He’ll fight Mingyu for the bill if he has to. “Do you have a phone this time? Hopefully one you actually own yourself.”

Mingyu laughs into an easy, familiar smile, says, “So many questions,” and then takes out a simple smartphone.

Before Mingyu can get in another word, Wonwoo snatches the phone from his hand.

* * *

**From** : **Unknown Number**

Save the number this time you mf hack

Nooooooo don’t make that the first text I send you!!! 🥺😖😭

>SAVE CONTACT AS **Kim Mingyu**?

>YES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Wonwoo’s in-fic ex-girlfriend is a reference to _Incendiaries_ by R.O. Kwon, which is one of the most beautifully tragic things I’ve ever read. 
> 
> Whoops, forgot to add “Poorly-veiled analogy for the K-Pop industry” in the tags. 
> 
> Thank you kindly to veteran readers for being patient with me, and to new readers for taking the time to stop by. Aside from the quarantine/pandemic, it took me so long to post again because I recently scrapped something I was working on since March. Nonetheless, I had legitimately so much fun with this, you guys. This story is like the cooler, sexier, more deeply complex cousin of a plastic sort of love that I dreamed of but never found the inspiration for. Until now.
> 
> Stay safe, advocate for equal rights, and practice self-care! See y'all in the next one (whenever that may be).
> 
> If you have any questions or just wanna chat, hit me up on [tumblr](https://aijee.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> 1Wonwoo’s in-fic ex-girlfriend is a reference to _The Incendiaries_ by R.O. Kwon, which is one of the most beautifully tragic things I’ve ever read.  
> 
> 
> Whoops, forgot to add “Poorly-veiled analogy for the K-Pop industry” in the tags—like every other moderately angsty thing I've written.
> 
> Long time no post! Thank you to my returning readers for your patience, and thank you to new readers who took the time to stop by! I had so much fun with this, you guys. This story is like the cooler, sexier, more deeply complex cousin of [a plastic sort of love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15477678) I dreamed of but never found the inspiration for. Until now, evidently.
> 
> Thank you again for reading! I’d love to know what you thought. If you have any questions or just wanna chat, hit me up on [tumblr](https://aijee.tumblr.com)!
> 
> (Edit: For anyone interested, I wrote a [post](https://aijee.tumblr.com/post/624448004625252352/thoughts-on-the-price-of-mirrors) on tumblr about my thoughts on the fic/hosting culture)


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